The Abundance of Death
by quaquaquaqua
Summary: In another universe, the Girl-Who-Lived is Merry Potter. Armed with arrogance, ambition, Snape *LONG story*, the knack for Legilimency, and a touch of rebellion, she's entering Hogwarts a bit more than prepared and a lot crazier than they expected. HIATUS
1. PROLOGUE: Introducing Death

Disclaimer: This is DEFINITELY not the work of JK Rowling. Though I wouldn't mind if you mistook me for her.

If this gets a little boring, then **please skip this chapter**. It wouldn't make much difference to just _read the summary at the end_ of the chapter.

This chapter involves Lily and James Potter, Harry Potter and the Girl Who Lived, the Peverell brothers and Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort.

Written in Death's point of view.

INTRODUCING DEATH

PROLOGUE – In Which Death Makes a Curious Discovery or The Truth Behind the Deathly Hallows

There's that line they say. What was it again?

_You can't cheat fate._

But I, my attentive audience, can.

If Fate was, let's suppose, a dance, then I am most certainly not attending.

Perhaps I was not invited.

Dances do not amuse me, just as Fate does not either. I watch from the sideline as all you poor, misguided men and women relish victory at the thought of mastering flimsy movement, waste away with anxiety at the thought of impending singularity, pine over unknowing people without ever truly grasping their thoughts as I have.

But if fate _was_ a dance, then I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that every boy and girl, every man and women, young and old, poor and rich, would be dancing. Old Time, with his wizened grin and clever, nimble fingers, would be tapping away a beat as all of he ladies and gentle, boys and girls, young and old, poor and rich, etc danced along with it. Everything would be smooth – no, naughty Chaos was not invited either, though he sometimes sneak in – and nothing would be out of place.

Except, of course, me.

And I would be standing a little away from all of them, waiting impatiently for this strange dance to end.

Similarly, if Fate happened to be someone else, say, a Venus flytrap, it'd ensnare me with its trap and shut its claws on…nothing. I simply seep through, bored at the flytrap's lack of intelligence, and amused at its incredulous doubt.

And if fate was, say, a **_deadly green light_** coming my way, I'd most sincerely greet it like a lost child.

Question: And what, you ask, is this prodigal light? What is it that causes me to so welcome it?

Answer: The mere colour, see, is one which I tolerate most, particularly this shade of swift, violent green. Not fresh, green grass, no. Much too vibrant for my taste. Nor the dense forests in which I have flew across, their dark shade blurring my sight. This green was different. To put it simply, this was an Artificial Colour. Mother Nature did not welcome it and shook her head sadly at me when I did. Welcome it, that is.

And why should she? This green was my colour. I was, after all, once one of _Them_.

Wizards. Witches. Among the good, we were neutrality.

So long ago it was. I was there only _slightly_ after the world first began. And then there was that day, the day I'd dappled in things I shouldn't have, knowing full well Mother Nature was shaking her head at me as if I were a lost cause. I dappled in things just as my forefathers had done, things that should not have been dappled with.

I welcome many things. Things others - Time, Fate and Chaos also, to some extent, welcome.

But why shouldn't we? We had the potential to do things no one else could. Why shouldn't we indulge in our potential?

One reason: There had been more than just Adam and Eve in that nice little garden God keeps me from. We had all eaten the forbidden fruit.

But what made us so different? So much _better_?

Another reason: Simply put, my forefather and his sister had eaten an extra apple.

Suddenly, we became different. Better. So much better. It was as if the extra apple had unlocked something deep inside, something so much deeper.

I imagine, by now, that you, my wonderful audience, would know who I really am. I am _Death_.

I wasn't always like this. In fact, once, I was just another spawn of the spawn of the spawn of the spawn of the children who had, mischievously, eaten another apple. I was, as they call us now, just another wizard.

Question: So what changed me?

Answer: My thirst.

So God had cast us out of his garden and into a world we never made. Wonderful. My forefathers never complained. It was an opportunity to explore what we could, and for so many generations, we did. And all the while, the world prospered, numbers grew, and no one ever died.

It was my great-uncle who constructed the first wand, something which could channel our abilities so precisely that we'd rarely lose the control we seldom had when exploring our talents.

The second wand, I must say, was constructed with much greater care. It is, to this day, the best wand ever made. The Elder Wand, they call it now. The Death Stick, the Wand of Destiny. It's the best because I made it. It was with this wand, this powerful, wonderful wand, that I was able to perform amazing feats my kind had only dreamt of. And it was with this wand that I discovered the Avada Kedavra.

I said before that I was often thirsty. I dreamt of knowledge, of power, of being able to accomplish things no one could ever before. This was at the tender age of fifty-nine, and rather young age at the time. I was arrogant, I was determined, and I was thirsty.

At fifty-nine, I made the Elder Wand.

At sixty-two, I invented the curse, the one curse that granted instant, painless death, the one curse that was undefeatable, the very curse whose light suddenly spread across the world and as all the men and women, girls and boys, young and old, rich and poor, were engulfed in the light, things were suddenly different.

It didn't take me long to realise what I had just done – I'd created Death. I was death. And I had, accidentally mind, turned the world into an extremely mortal world.

I panicked. At the death of so many loved ones, I rashly created a stone, one with just the right actions persuaded the dead back to us.

Question: Did this work?

Answer: No.

I was sorely disappointed when I bestowed the stone upon one of my sons, who used it to bring back his dead beloved. But the Dead, I soon came to understand, were just that – dead. They could never be resurrected, because Death was infallible. The stone that I had created never truly did what it was said to do. Instead of relieving one of their grief, it increased it by ten-folds, until they were mad with grief, until they could no longer stand the pain of living in such a world.

This was when I was eighty. I was no longer the naïve boy I once was. When I soon realised that I had cheated myself, I finally realised the consequences of my thirst.

Then, on my hundredth birthday, I wove a cloth that hid person when they sheltered under it. It was the one invention to which I felt true satisfaction. I bestowed the cloth upon my only surviving son, in hopes that Death would not find him at his last hour, and therefore he shall thwart Death, and thwart Fate.

But I should have realised, even so many years ago, that no one could cheat Fate. So when my last son's time was up and he died, even with the cloth clutched tight in his hand, that was when I realised that Death, after being created, could not be thwarted. Not usually, anyway. I collected up my treasures, the Elder Wand which issued out instant Death, the Resurrection Stone, is it was later called, that proved Death could not be thwarted, and the Invisibility Cloak, and I left my humanity to become the Master of Death.

And that is what I happen to be now.

During the entirety of my career, it so happened that my theory of the impossibility of thwarting death made an exception in three circumstances.

One concerned the fate of three brothers who so reminded me of my own long-dead sons. When they thwarted me the first time, I granted them the instruments of which I had created long ago, instruments that, after so many years of travelling, were now of little use to me. The Deathly Hallows, they were soon called. I was attempted not to be thwarted twice.

Question: Why?

Answer: Perhaps it was due to their uncanny similarities towards my own sons that I became absolute in my efforts for them too to be captured, just as my sons were not able to escape Death.

I gleefully took the life of the brother with his powerful wand the very next day, a knife cut deep into his throat and his murderer sharing my feelings as he examined his new wand

I smugly grasped onto the soul of his younger brother, of whom I'd given the stone to, finding his last minutes of agony as he finally decided to hang himself.

And I waited, patiently of course, for the life of the youngest brother, the wisest, one so different to his oldest brother and his unbeatable wand, who truly understood that it was only possible to avoid me and thus postpone my meeting. Who seeked not the past nor power.

I admit, I was slightly reluctant in collecting his soul. I became curious as to what would become of my treasure, whether his descendents would ever cross paths with me. Thus it was purely on a whim that I began to collect a list of his line.

It wasn't difficult. Though he had many children and even more grandchildren, most married inside the family, a second or third cousin or perhaps the daughter of their mother's cousin's half-sister. The blood of the youngest brother stayed strong over the years, but I was disappointed when none ever held close to his nobility and wisdom.

But nevertheless, this was one bloodline whose soul I could never collect. In a sense, the youngest brother had evaded me. His blood spread, ramifications that expanded till the line was so thin it was possible to collect a soul from whose body would only contain a drop of that blood…

And then a war between my kind, wizards as they say, began. I was everywhere. So many bodies at such a speed. I mourned over the loss of so many lives, the result of such a simple spell I had discovered so long ago. What little remorse a creature like me could still have after living as Death wracked through my being and so I took my time to study each face and their expressions as they met their demise, I spent less time (though it still worried me) tracking down the line of that young brother whom I had met so long ago and more on the result of my people.

Which of them would be my descendent? How many of them had my blood, my thirst, my intelligence, the potential to invent the Killing Curse?

How young they all were. Their lives had merely just begun and already, already their paths were set for them, merely waiting for these innocent children to step across and greet me solemnly.

My second encounter of evidence against my theory of the impossibility of thwarting Death was with a couple who would thwart me not once but _thrice_.

_Lily Potter nee Evans_

_Answers to the name of Lily, Lils and Evans_

_Graduated Hogwarts Gryffindor_

_Current member of the Order of the Phoenix_

_Muggle-born_

_James Potter_

_Answers to the name of James, Potter and Prongs_

_Graduated Hogwarts Gryffindor_

_Current member of the Order of the Phoenix_

_Direct descendent of the Peverell brothers_

_Pureblood_

Question: Did I know who they were?

Answer: No. Not for a few years.

A young, fierce girl and her beloved, fighting in the very heart of war, hardening my ache as I realised they were still so young. It was the man, the beloved, with such courage, such strength and such devotion that first drew him to my attention. Indeed, though he possessed neither the sort of intelligence or wisdom his ancestor had, I recognised him almost immediately as the direct descendent of the youngest brother. He, too, seeked not Death, for he did not want to die, but the power of being able to take Death and embrace it in such a manner that proved he was not afraid of me.

A noble soul, him. Unfortunately, during such an intense time of war between my people, I had grown accustomed to this attitude, to this almost suicidal way of thinking. So I ducked my head almost apologetically, though I knew he could not see me, and turned away until his time was up.

He didn't have much longer. I turned to his beloved, shaking my head sorrowfully, knowing full well she wouldn't last a minute longer under the pain she was in until I took her.

While it was he that drew my attention, it was she that truly captured it.

There she was, her face fresh without the dark scars of war, twisted in anguish and stubborn defiance, forehead laced with sweat as she struggled not to scream. I held my breath as she lifted her head up, almost as if she could see me.

I admit, being Death, I was not easily surprised. Indeed, I knew things, for I held the knowledge of so many an era, I understood universal concepts after replaying them time and again across the arena, and yet here I was, completely, utterly startled by this amazing girl.

Her eyes were green. They were, as I would call it, and Artificial Colour. The colour, the exact shade down to the very tone, of the Killing Curse. Indeed, I was not mistaken, having come across the very shade myself an infinite number of times. This girl had Death in her eyes, the blood of Death in her veins, and Death's mark pierced onto her soul.

She could not die. Not yet.

Question: Who was she?

Answer: I had absolutely no idea.

Later on, when I berated myself for letting her live, I justified by saying that it would be undeniably shameful to allow such a complete soul be murdered by another who had ripped his shamelessly to shreds.

This wasn't true. This man, with his ripped souls, had killed in cold, freezing blood five others. Why should this woman's soul, this mere human whose lineage was the least remarkable, why should her life be kept while others suffered? Indeed, I was the thief who returned the jeweller's gold watch.

Thrice I saved the man and woman from the same ripped soul, and thrice I scolded myself for my stupidity. They had thwarted me, and I was confused as to what to do.

Then there was Fate, who watched the turn of her dance with glee. She interfered and granted another woman with a prophecy.

I shall not tell you the exact contents of this prediction, for I am sure you already know, but Fate, allowing herself to step in as the hostess of this dance, arrogantly challenged the pair to thwart her.

It so happened that a union was soon created between the descendent of my time-transcending obsession and the Death-marked girl whose lives I have avoided stealing three times during such a war. Lily and James Potter, I soon discovered them to be called, for their courage and nerve that had drove them to survive for so long was often among the last thoughts of others who died. They had a child too, I soon learned. And Fate, finding it right to only inform me of the impending doom, this blast that was about to occur hanging above the players of this chess board, smugly told me that this child had the potential to save my people from despair.

By now, I was helpless. The fateful night of Halloween soon approached.

At the same time, I was in a million other places. A raid of sorts was taking place in the Ministry building. Masked men were falling as Aurors truimpehd. Hungry boys that prowled the roads of Africa, and France would wake up tomorrow with five less patients, the result of a power shortage in a near-abandoned hospital. Lily Potter, as I had learned her name to be, was busy tending to her child.

An Apology: Sorry. _Children. _It seems that she had twins.

While the prophecy, as darling Fate had solemnly informed me, spoke of one destined child, there were two currently held in her arms. One boy and one girl. I wondered which would die.

Lily Potter took a deep breath. One of her last. "G-god?" She gulped. "I know you're there."

I stared at this woman amazingly. This woman who clutched her children tightly with trembling fingers. The two of us listened in silence at the cackling laughter of the ripped soul as her defiant husband fell.

There was Fate, the green light aimed by Tom Riddle at James Potter, the direct descendent of Peverell. I winced as I took his soul, ignoring his accusing glare as I pulled him out of his body.

In all truth, his death was a loss to me. This man, whom I had done so much for, whose life had held so much potential, was brutally robbed of a future, a crime for standing on the wrong side of the football field. Lily Potter trembled as she thought of his limp body, his lifeless eyes and Voldemort – _Merlin, he's standing over James with his blood-red eyes and his wand's still glowing from the Unforgiveable – _

I winced. What an unpleasant image.

"I can see you, you know," she said quietly.

I almost sneered. Almost.

"God, you have to help me protect my children," she continued, staring a little too high at a spot above my head. "Protect the destined babe. It's our only hope. Our only -"

It took me a few seconds to realise why she had stopped talking. With her bedroom door blasted open and such a disgrace of a wizard staring coldly at her, she had grown silent, almost scared, then suddenly frantic.

"_No! No! Not my children, not them! Please, please!"_

"Stand aside, girl," the voice growled.

I wanted to laugh.

Question: Why?

Answer: Tom Riddle was an arrogant man who had no idea just how _evil_ his voice would sound compared to my own.

_"No, not Merry, not Harry, not my children! Please, have mercy!"_

I tuned their voices out, instead turning my attention to the children who were placed hastily onto the bed by their Death-marked mother. I curiously wondered what their names were.

**_Mistletoe Petronica Potter_**

_The First Child_

_The child they thought would be their only son, but called her as such anyway_

_Mistletoe for short, nicknamed Merry_

**_Harry James Potter_**

_The child they hadn't expected_

_Harry formally, and Harry informally_

_Answers to the name of Prongslet and kid_

There was injustice as I stared at the two. One with such an extraordinary burden of a name and then other with one so plain and dull, as if the instant his parents had seen his plain hazel eyes, they had decided that his twin sister, with her glowing emerald eyes, was better. His name was Harry.

I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

It was obvious to say that the mother cared remarkably for both children. But if she had asked me, if she had only given me one choice, only one to save…

I shook off my cloak, a second invisibility cloak that I had created after the absence of my first. In one swift movement, just as this beautiful, deadly green shot towards her, I engulfed her with the fabric, shivering at my vulnerability. This would be the third instance where one had escaped me. And this time, like the first, it was because I allowed.

Tom Marvolo Riddle froze at the sight of me. Though this tortured soul's eyes held not the Artificial Colour Lily Potter's eyes had held, they saw me none the less. Young Mistletoe Petronica Potter also stared at me, though lacking the fear the other held.

Harry James Potter was giggling when the Killing Curse bounded off his sister and struck him.

Tom Riddle was halfway through shrieking out another Curse when the same disaster struck him too. He howled in horror, reaching forward to claw at the girl but finding that he had no strength…that he had no power…

I turned away, disgusted. Here was one tampered soul whose destruction I had no wish to witness. After collecting the soul of Harry James Potter, who sobbed as his one-year-old mind finally seemed to understand death, I left.

And so the day concluded. I turned to Fate and I said, "I have won. The girl has thwarted her fate. She remains unharmed."

But Fate merely grinned at me, her smugness still apparent. "And that is her fate, dear Death. The prophecy dictates her fate and her fate began ticking the moment she was born. The instant you decided to let her thwart Death, her fate was sealed. This is her destiny, Death. She is chosen for this fate, and she has chosen to relent. Thus, she cannot yield."

Perhaps Fate was sad when she said those words. She, after all knew what the inevitable future held. And sadly, the phrase remains true –

_You can't cheat fate._

Over the years, as I journeyed across the world, being here and there all at once, I became weary as to when I would greet the destined babe with such a bitter fate again. The time never came. Curiously, I decided, just as I had done with the youngest brother who had thwarted me all those years ago, to track her down.

This is the part where I, your narrator, graciously ask you to journey back in time with me and read on.

Summary: In a nutshell…

So Death is pretty actually quite human - he was once just a man whose thirst for knowledge overcame him, causing him to truly discover the Killing Curse, and of course death.

This guy thinks he's pretty tough, and he pretty much is, except throughout his entire career, he's been tricked by humans, three times. (This guy thinks humans weren't worth much, as he understands it is the human conditions in him that caused him to be who he is now.)

First were the brothers mentioned in the Deathly Hallows, second were Lily and James Potter, and third is their daughter...erm, let's just call her Merry. Her full name's way too long.

Yeah, yeah. Mistletoe's name is way cooler/weirder compared to Harry's. That's because she was named by someone else. Any guesses who?

This is a Girl-Who-Lived story, sort of like a parallel to Harry Potter. Keep an eye out for the 'soul' part, though. Especially concerning Voldemort. In this story, the Chosen One isn't actually a horcrux (so she won't be asking Voldie to off her any time soon) and therefore Mist won't have a scar.

Any guesses on what her recognisable trait could be/involve? I pretty much give it all away in this chapter...

Read and Review!

Mask With A Truth


	2. Introducing Petunia Dursley

INTRODUCING PETUNIA DURSLEY

Ah. Back in time we go. Faster, faster, faster.

1981. A few hours into the first of November.

This is a nice time to begin our story. Right out on the steps of number four, Privet Drive, where our heroine would meet her aunt for the first time.

Hours earlier, Vernon Dursley retired home from work, having experienced a most peculiar day. Around the time of midnight, unbeknownst to the Dursleys, a man appeared on their street for the first time of two visits, which we shall talk more of, later in the future.

He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. His name was Albus Dumbledore.

He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something, but soon realised that he was being watched and he looked up suddenly at the cat, staring at him from the other end of the street. The sight of the cat seemed to amuse him and he chuckled, muttering, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket, something which resembled a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again - the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.  
"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

The two spoke for awhile, exchanging news of the world they were part of. McGonagall spoke vehemently of the Statute of Secrecy and Dedalus Diddle. It wasn't long before she finally asked what had been on her mind the whole day.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are - are - that they're - dead."

Dumbledore bowed his head. McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James…I can't believe it…I didn't want to believe it…Oh, Albus…"

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know…I know…" he said heavily.

"That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the twins, but - he couldn't. The boy – disappeared without a trace. And the girl…they're saying that when he couldn't kill Merry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke - and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's - it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done… all the people he's killed…he couldn't kill a little girl? It's just astounding…of all the things to stop him…but how in the name of heaven did Merry survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Merry to her aunt and uncle. They're the only family she has left now."  
"You don't mean - you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore - you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son - I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. They will _ruin _the girl!"

"It's the best place for her," said Dumbledore firmly. "Her aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to her when she's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand her! She'll be famous - a legend - I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Merry Potter day in the future - there will be books written about her - every child in our world will know her name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any child's head. Famous before she can walk and talk! Famous for something she won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off she'll be, growing up away from all that until she's ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes - yes, you're right, of course. But how is the child getting here, Dumbledore?"  
"Hagrid's bringing her."  
"You think it - wise - to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"  
I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.  
"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to - what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky - and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

The man sitting astride it was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. Looking too big, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he held a bundle of blankets.

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a tiny girl, rosy cheeks laced with deep-red hair. She wasn't asleep, for her eyes wondered curiously around to her surroundings. They were shining orbs of green, rather beautiful, if not for the fact that they were also the colour of the Killing Curse. In the darkness, they glowed. As they landed on McGonagall, the Professor winced.

"So the Killing Curse was-?"whispered McGonagall.  
"Yes," said Dumbledore. "Those eyes of hers, the mark of death, will stay alight till her dying day."

"Can't you do something about them, Dumbledore?"

"Our eyes are the windows to the soul. I cannot do anything that wouldn't affect her sight, nor anything helpful at this young age. Besides, they may come in handy some day. Well - give her here, Hagrid - we'd better get this over with."  
Dumbledore took the bundle up in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.  
Quite suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it - Lily an' James dead - poor little Harry gone – now Merry off ter live with Muggles -"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid the girl gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside her blankets, then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.  
"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."  
"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall - Professor Dumbledore, sir." Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Merry," he murmured.

Perhaps he sensed a fraction of the future that was to come, for he peered into the two points of green light, still facing him, once more. A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place anyone would expect astonishing things to happen. Mistletoe Potter rolled over inside her blankets and fell asleep, not knowing she was special, not knowing she was famous, not knowing that the path Fate had set out for her would be a long and dark one.

Tomorrow, she would wake, just in time to begin the next adventure…

Chapter 2: In which Petunia makes an interesting decision

Petunia Dursley was having a rather horrible day. Her Diddykins was screeching, her hair was unkempt and _Lily Potter's daughter_ was in her house.

It was all the milk bottles' fault. If they weren't crowding up the kitchen, she wouldn't have considered throwing them out, and if she hadn't considered throwing them out, she would have stayed in the house well after the usual busy hours of the morning. And if she had, then maybe someone would have noticed the brat before she did and took her in themselves.

Unfortunately for her, this was not the case. She had her milk bottles to blame.

Dudley howled as he eyed the Potter girl, laid out on the kitchen table like a slab of meat. She didn't want to touch it.

Spread out in front of her was a letter written by Albus Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore, Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards. To Petunia Dursley, he was the man who had rejected her entry to his freakish school, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Petunia, who took her rejections rather seriously, could still remember what Mr Dumbledore had written. Sincerest apologies, dear girl, for you don't have enough magic in you to be a witch. You are considered a squib. Perhaps in a few years' time, your magic will grow. Until then, Albus Dumbledore, Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, _blah blah blah_.

Oh, how she detested the man. It was he who had taken Lily away from her and her family. It was he who had forced her to marry that Potter, another freak, instead of a good, Christian boy whom Petunia and her parents all approved. It was Albus Dumbledore who had persuaded Lily to become a bloody fighter during a bloody war, and it was, therefore, his entire fault that the Potter freaks were dead.

She scanned the letter, reluctant to read the emerald-inked script. Emerald reminded her of Lily and thinking of Lily…hurt. Somewhere along the boring passage, the girl's name was mentioned.

Mistletoe Petronica Potter

Mistletoe Petronica Potter

What a truly ridiculous name. It was just the sort of thing freaks would call their spawns. The only part of the name that made her hesitate was 'Petronica'. _Petronica. _It strongly reminded Petunia of that promise Lily had made when she was still only six and her – Tuney – eight. What had Lily said? _I'll name my children after you, Tuney! Well, maybe not their first name. But I promise to love you forever and ever, and my children will love yours forever and we'll all be the best of friends!_

The best of friends. Right.

Of course, it wasn't her fault that they had stopped all contacts. Lily, with one last chance of reconciling with her only sister, had brought home her good-for-nothing husband and his equally good-for-nothing best friend. At first, Petunia conformed, but as the day stretched, it was evident that the two boys weren't going to leave the sisters on their own any time soon. Every bloody time Petunia began to ask Lily if she remembered what life was like before the whole mess began, Potter would interrupt coldly, then smile at Lily as if he was doing her a favour. And Black, such an arrogant boy who, when asked by Petunia whether his parents had ever taught him any lessons, actually _spat at her in the face_.

It was such a horrible day, and then the phone had bleated enthusiastically in the background, causing a relieved Lily to jump up and answer.

It left Petunia with the two freaks, and with her sister gone, the two relished at her horror. They taunted her, called her names, snob, ugly, horsey, _bitch_. They pointed their wands at her until she squealed with fright, and when Petunia finally had enough and kicked them out of the house, the look on Lily's face...She should have realised that her sister would believe her no-good husband and his friend, both freaks of course, over her own sister.

Petronica. Petronica. Petronica.

She was a freak, of course. But halfway through the thought, Petunia fleetingly imagined having something she always wished she had – a daughter, a mini Petunia, a pet she could take around to proudly display, just as she would have done with Duddy had he not been a boy.

The thought only lasted a few seconds, but a few seconds was all it took for the idea to become firmly embedded into her head. Yes, she, Petunia Dursley, was going to truly stamp out the magic from this girl, just as hers had been. She'd like to see Albus Dumbledore's face when he realised what she had done. The idea was perfect.

She grabbed the girl off the table, setting Diddykins howling again, this time with jealousy. She quietly shushed him, begging him to sleep. "SH-SHAN'T! SHAN'T!" he cried. Normally, Petunia would have fussed over her Duddy learning a new word, but today, she sighed somewhat tiredly and silenced him by ruthlessly placing a pacifier in his mouth. He struggled relentlessly, then gave up after a few seconds, falling into an exhausted sleep.

With a sigh, Petunia sat herself down on a chair and bent her head down to survey her niece. Amidst all the drama during Dudley's annoying fit, the girl had woken up and was staring curiously up at her, just the way Lily always seemed to when they were children.

And then Petunia's breath hitched. She stared, mesmerized by the two orbs. Emerald though they were, just as Lily's had been, they seemed to almost glow a sinister shade. She almost dropped the bundle she was carrying, pushing it away from her, as far away as she could. Those eyes, so ominous, so disturbing…and the way that they _glowed_. Even Lily's had never done that.

_Hello_, a voice sounded in Petunia's head. Startled, her eyes flickered to child. _Hello_.

Petunia shrieked silently. The child – this brat – had proven herself to be just as much of a freak – if not more – as her parents were. _She could talk with her mind_. Surely that Albus Dumbledore couldn't possibly expect her, Petunia Dursley, utter squib, to raise this child, this abomination, as her own. The day she accepted anything abnormal to be a part of her family would be the day she herself became a freak.

And that, Petunia decided, was not going to be happening any time soon. She eyed the brat cautiously, her mind racing with all the different ways she had to get rid of it. The brat, however, would have none of it.

_Are you my mother now?_ The child's voice echoed in her mind. _Will you be looking after me now that my real family is gone?_

It was the eyes, Petunia decided later. The orbs that, sinister though they were, held an innocent, unknowing quality that she found she could not relent. It wasn't her fault that the girl had hypnotised her.

"Yes," she replied stiffly, "your family is dead now, so I'll be taking you in." Unfortunately.

The child almost smiled. It seemed satisfied with her answer.

And then Petunia's thoughts flew, once again, lingering a little longer than better, to the future. What would life be like if she did, indeed, raise this child to be her own? Perhaps Dumbledore had hoped, in light of what had happened and this girl's freakishness, that she, Petunia, would let go of her hate of all things magical.

Sure, it was going to be impossible for Petunia to stamp out the magic in the girl. But what if she used that to her advantage? Why should Albus Dumbledore leave such a child, clearly very powerful, to a Muggle family with little knowledge of how to look after her, moments after the death of her parents?

The answer was clear. They had simply abandoned her. The Wizarding world, the girl's parents, Potter's obnoxious friends, every one of those freaky people Lily Potter knew, had simply abandoned the child.

_Love her, Petunia. Cherish her as you would, had this child been your own, and never let her forget the bravery and love of her parents as they fought with their lives to protect this child._

The problem with Dumbledore was that he was such a hypocrite. Years ago, Petunia Evans had written a letter to him, full of dreams and pleas, begging him for a place at Hogwarts. He had refused. Years later, Dumbledore had written to her, asking far too much. It was impossible to complete all of his requests. Especially the last one.

Excitedly, she prepared herself for her toughest challenge yet. Perhaps Lily and James Potter would die in a car crash…

Her thoughts anxiously flew to Vernon, knowing he would be displeased. It wasn't everyday a woman like her defied their husband.

Ten years later, Petunia Dursley would still be wondering just what made her look after the child, her child, even though she knew things would never be the same.

She supposed it would all be the milk bottles' fault.

Notes:

Okay, to all the people out there offended by what Petunia thought of James Potter and Sirius Black, in my defence, this is _Petunia's _thoughts. She isn't exactly known for her lack of bias.

Merry is Mistletoe. I decided to give her a nickname, being as first, Mistletoe's a mouthful for a baby, and second, it kinda sounds like a more feminine 'Harry Potter'.

I added the extra excerpt with McGonagall, Dumbledore and Hagrid because I wanted people to know exactly what had happened to the Potters, and how Mistletoe/Merry was marked.

Mistletoe's attitude, behaviour and personality is explained mostly by Petunia. Sure, the girl's obviously a pretty intelligent baby, but she's still a child, and no child is born evil. While Mistletoe will be far from evil, she _is _still pretty creepy at times. Had Petunia really treated Mistletoe as her own daughter, surely the arrogance/haughtiness would have rubbed off.

Hoped you liked this chapter! Cheers.

MaskWithATruth


	3. Introducing Vernon Dursley

Disclaimer: Dear God. For my birthday, can you please schedule a meeting between JK Rowling, author of Harry Potter and me? I'll never be her but I'd like to know how she does it...

This chapter involves Vernon Dursley, Girl Who Lived, Petunia and Dudley Dursley, brief mention of Lily and James Potter, and the Malfoys

Please read and comment. If it helps, the Malfoys will soon appear, as will the Weasleys, before Hogwarts.

INTRODUCING VERNON DURSLEY

There now. Why don't we skip a few years to the Christmas of 1987, where our heroine is seven years old?

It's a rather cold, snowing night and Vernon Dursley is about to get the best shock of his life...

Chapter 3: Vernon Dursley receives some unwanted advice

Vernon Dursley was a proud man. Proud to be British, proud to be a Dursley, and proud to be the director of his firm Grunnings, one that made a safe supply of drills for the equally-proud people of Surrey.

It so happened, therefore, that when his seven-year-old niece decided to question his company's marketing tactics, he was left speechless, shocked and his pride more than a little bruised.

Mistletoe Potter, he had decided the instant he laid eyes on her that very first day of November, was Bad News. Her eyes, a strong residue of the freakishness the child had endured during her first years (vital, that they were) of growth, said it all. He thought back to the day he'd first met Petunia's family, and how Lily Evans' eyes were _almost_ the same colour. Her eyes were pretty, more than what he could say for a freak. Her daughter's eyes, on the other hand, were downright creepy.

Then there was the wee problem with her habit of reading his mind and answering his questions, especially when she had been too young to speak, by voicing them loudly in his head. Now _that_ was truly horrifying. The girl had been doing it before she could walk and five years with the Dursleys had not changed that.

Oh, and the girl liked to talk to snakes.

All in all, Vernon often wondered what on Earth the Potters had done to their child for her to turn out the way she had. His family, being such a welcoming, kind-hearted, charitable and caring family, naturally never complained.

It would be simpler to say, however, that Petunia was a little disappointed. She had hoped that Mistletoe would turn out just like their perfect, handsome Diddykins who was such a smart little boy. In fact, if Vernon didn't know better, he'd say that Petunia had raised the girl in hopes that she would turn out just like Petunia had – the domestic, caring and certainly _non_-freakish type.

Petunia, he thought a little sadly, had failed on all three accounts.

At four years of age, the girl, so eager to help around the house that it almost became frightening to watch, had volunteered to clean up the kitchen. Vernon winced at that memory. Needless to say, domestic housework was firmly left to Petunia, who panicked at the mere thought of the girl fingering her plates with a sponge.

As for caring, the girl was often caught giving Duddy cold looks whenever he wailed loudly about inequity and unfairness, claiming – lying of course – that 'he started it first'.

Vernon didn't have the heart to consider the girl's freakishness, so he left it at that.

The girl was currently rambling off about a passage in a book she'd read, quoting how 'business franchising is the ultimate way for a business to expand'.

Whatever rubbish she was going off about, he didn't really care. The girl was, after all only seven. A genius perhaps, and maybe (in her words) seven and a half, but she was, in essence, a freak. What would the world be like if everyone suddenly began to listen to the words of people like her? Havoc, surely.

The girl finally stopped mid-sentence and sent him a piercing glare, illuminating those emerald orbs of hers and sending a nasty shiver down his back. _"I hope you were listening, dear uncle," _the girl's sweet voice resounded in his head.

Oh dear. It seemed like she had heard him. He simpered and pretended to listen attentively. _"Pretend, Vernon?"_ Mistletoe mind-scoffed. It was times like these when Vernon wished the girl would stop reading his mind. It bugged the bloody hell out of him.

"Alright, alright," he huffed, "I'm listening."

The seven (and a half) year old nodded at him approvingly, eyes scanning intelligently across the page of the book – _his_ book, mind. "I was saying, uncle, that now would be a good time to expand your business."

He stared at her incredulously. "I'll have you know that Grunnings is perfectly fine the way it is, young lady."

And that was the other thing – she always knew when to give comments on things that often made sense. He thought freaks weren't supposed to make sense. It must have been something the girl had picked up living with them Dursleys.

"Yes," Mistletoe said slyly, "it must be."

"I'm the director of my firm, Mistletoe. Not you."

"No, not yet." She flipped through the book again. "Business, currently, is doing well, I suppose?"

Vernon chortled. "Well, it's never done better!"

She nodded. "Let's just suppose that Grunnings _could_ do even better?"

He stared at her suspiciously. "What're you getting at, young lady?"

Mistletoe rolled her eyes. "Throughout its entire fourteen year history, Grunnings has always made drills." She leaned forward, a cunning look on her face. "But what if Grunnings were to make more than just drills? What if Grunnings were to start making...nailers?"

Vernon's mouth dropped open. Though it only drooped a few inches, a few inches was all it took for all of Vernon's three chins to shift downwards, dragged down by gravity, and jingle a little as they contemplated their journey. "What?"

The girl nodded, her face one of complete seriousness, an expression not often seen on a seven year old girl.

"Not just nailers, uncle. Think hammer trackers, staple guns...even a range of more primitive tools like the hammer and screwdriver. Think about all the fantastic choices you get to make!"

Vernon blinked, mouth (and chins) staying where they were. Why hadn't he thought of this? It was so blindingly obvious, of course. The clients were always complaining about the lack of variety. And to think that a seven year old freak had managed to solve his problems! The girl sent him a rather stern look. _"Seven and a half, uncle._"

He grunted, for once not caring of the girl's freakishness. "That's a brilliant idea, Mistletoe," he admitted, "I should contact the board immediately."

Vernon, though he didn't like it when people knew, was part of a board of directors who operated under the firm Grunnings. Employers worked for the board and the board worked for the chairman. Though he didn't like mentioning that part all too often.

The girl beamed. "No need, uncle," she said excitedly, "I've already proposed the idea under your name. I'm sure you won't mind. Consider it a slightly early Christmas present."

Vernon's eyes bugged out of their sockets. "You what?" he roared.

Mistletoe smiled innocently. "I was trying to tell you that in the beginning, but honestly, you weren't listening." Vernon was silent, too busy trying to control his erratic breathing. His face, no doubt was purple. He thought about what the other, less-important directors would say. He thought about what the chairman would say and how his employers would ever listen to him again without laughing at him.

The girl, her and her freakish nature once again disrupting his normal life as it had five years ago, was laughing at him. He almost wanted to hit her, only stopping when he thought about what Petunia would think.

"Oh, calm down, Vernie," she teased. His eyes narrowed. "I think your chairman will be very impressed with you. I even sent him an outline of the different products manufactured by other firms. He should be calling any minute now."

Vernon howled. "You're seven years old, Mistletoe Petronica Potter!"

"And a half!" his stubborn niece fumed. "I'll have you know that the youngest college-lecturer in the world was eight years old when he began his profession, the youngest professional video gamer is six, and Capablanca beat his own father in a chess match at four!"

Vernon rolled his eyes. And that was just another abnormal thing about her – she was just always so interested in child prodigies, young talented boys and girls whose stories she enjoyed hearing immensely. It was almost as if she belonged in their group.

Mistletoe rolled her eyes. "Oh course I belong with child prodigies, uncle," she retorted, "I am one myself."

Vernon grunted, too distracted to care. He was more focussed on imagining the look of the chairman's face when he went to work on Monday.

And then the phone rang.

Mistletoe smiled cheerfully. "That'll be him. Ronald Stevens, I think his name was? I hope you don't mind me calling him Ray."

As the phone droned on miserably, Vernon felt beads of sweat form on his head.

His niece, sensing his discomfort, enquired, "Would you like me to pick up the phone for you?"

"NO!" Vernon bolted up and grabbed the phone, huffing and puffing with anxiety. "V-vernon Dursley speaking."

And that was exactly how dear Vernon received the best shock of his life.

A couple years later, during a time when Number Four Privet Drive is long forgotten and Number Fifteen Victoria Street, a much larger house in a wealthier part of the town, holds the party of the month...

"Head Director and partner," Vernon said smugly.

Petunia regarded her husband with awestruck eyes. Dudley, not really understanding what all the fuss was about, loudly complained about his meal. Mistletoe snickered when she saw the expression on his face – one which clearly said he had been brutally ignored. The rest of the guests, of course, listened to Vernon's speech with rapt attention.

"We'll be importing the materials very soon and naturally, I'm in charge," he continued, making sure everyone, especially Mistletoe, knew.

Countless times, the girl had interfered. It had been her suggestion that they franchise the firm. Across the country, there were now fourteen factories manufacturing Grunnings products, and a couple of stores were currently being built in America and Australia. Though Vernon hated to admit it, business had boomed as people hounded the headquarters of the firm for large orders of tools every day.

And then there was the time on Diddykins' birthday, when she had scolded him for wasting his hard-earned money on his Diddy's thirty-six birthday presents.

"A new computer, a second television, racing bike, cine-camera, remote control aeroplane, sixteen new computer games, a video recorder and a gold wristwatch," Mistletoe had listed solemnly. "Uncle, do you have any idea how much you could invest with all this money?"

Dudley, unsurprisingly, had burst into tears. "Mum, Mummy!" he howled, "she doesn't want you to give me presents!"

The problem was quickly solved when Mistletoe burst out laughing. "Don't be stupid, Dudley. Your parents should only be using the money they would normally spend buying you presents to invest in properties and shares so that when you grow up, they'll give you all of that as one big birthday gift and you'll have so much more money that everyone'll be jealous!"

Dudley almost immediately sobered up, even insisting that they should give back all the presents. If there was one thing Vernon should give the girl credit on, it would be that Mistletoe Potter really knew how to manipulate others.

There were times when Vernon thought that he'd really grown quite fond of the girl.

"I say, let's declare a toast," Vernon announced, relishing in the attention. A crowd of eager heads nodded. "Hear, hear," they muttered.

Vernon raised his champagne fluke, staring into the rich colour. The faces of the crowd were obscured, but the grandeur, the luxury they now lived in, was still evident. Finally, he said, "to a brilliant future."

Echoes and clinks sounded. Petunia stood up and turned on the stereo, nice background music playing as the guests stood up and mingled. Several of the wealthy had even brought along their children. Vernon nodded contentedly to himself. Though they were not the richest family in the room – far from it in fact – nor the most well-known his family was only just starting their lives on Victoria Street, and in a few years' time, it would be only definite that his wife, son and niece would be the envy of the entire street.

"Greetings, uncle."

Ah, his beloved niece. He turned around, scrutinising her up and down. "Yes?"

Mistletoe smirked. "Your partner, Ray Stevens, will be arriving in about three minutes. I suggest you open the gates for their driver to enter."

It seemed, much to Vernon's unease and Petunia's disappointment, that time had only increased the girl's strange mind-reading abilities. So nuanced was her ability now that not only could she know what petty thoughts were held in the minds of people she had never even met, she could also, somewhat, predict the near future.

Mistletoe rolled her eyes. "He'll be bringing guests, just so you know," she said casually. _"Personally though, I'd be mindful of them - Ray's guest holds quite a remarkable amount of authority over him, and consequently, you."_

Vernon scratched his head, briefly wondering who this mystery guest was. Stevens may have mentioned him a little during lunch break. What was his name again – Madrid? Malrid? Malfod?

"_That'll be Malfoy, dear uncle,_" his niece said sweetly in his mind. _"Lucius Malfoy and his wife and kid."_


	4. Introducing Mistletoe Potter

Disclaimer: Hi, mum! Just checking to see if you really conceived me or if I'm actually JK Rowling in disguise. No? Darn it. Guess I won't be owning the Potter-verse today.

The following chapter includes the Girl Who Lived, the Dursleys, snakes, a mention of Wolfgang Mozart, brief mention of Muggles, Hogwarts and Quidditch, the Weasleys, especially Ronald Weasley, Percy Weasley and Molly Weasley, a mention of Slytherin and Salazar Slytherin, and Ginny Weasley.

INTRODUCING MISTLETOE POTTER

Chapter 4: In which the Weasleys receive quite a scare

Mistletoe Petronica Potter never fit in.

That was a given. Living as a Potter amongst Dursleys, a redhead amongst blondes and a mind-reading freak amongst a group of boring idiots, she shouldn't have expected anything else. But somewhere at the back of her mind, there was always the thought that she was better. That she was special. And that she was very, very powerful.

She often wondered what she was doing here. Living with the Dursleys was…boring. She'd never lived a day without being fed and she slept in the largest bedroom in a very large house (The reason being that the room contained a study) but sometimes she just felt like there was something…something _missing._

At a very young age, she had been slighted as a misfit. She was the piece _meant_ to fit into the hole in the jigsaw, but wasn't part of the set. Aunt Tuney had always disliked her 'freakishness' with a fierce passion. Dudley had always been careful to tread lightly with her. The other children stayed clear of her. Weirdo, posh, _crazy, _they thought about her. She was grateful that Dudley, with his ounce of kindness, had kept their bullying at bay by bullying them in return.

On the surface, she was a smart, if not abnormally intelligent, niece who liked to converse with Uncle Vernie about his wealth. But the underlying currents within her told her she could do better, that she was wasting her precious talents here, that she should be out there, ruling the world with the entire town wrapped around her little finger. What on Earth was stopping her?

No one normal could hear other people's thoughts voluntarily. No normal child could say things in people's heads. It was a blessing at times, but also a curse – she grew up in a world without friends. People constantly called her crazy behind her back, and whenever she retaliated, word would always pass round amongst the teachers, whispering that it was _that Mistletoe Potter again. _They always advised her to work alone on school projects. Apparently, she _scared the other children. _

Every year, it got worse. At first, communicating with her mind substituting talking during the early years of her childhood. Then, the occasional peak in her family's minds, but only surface thoughts. Soon, however, Mistletoe realized that should she look long enough into someone's eyes, she could not only read their thoughts, but _remember their life. _Their entire life could suddenly be locked in her sub-conscience, like a dream. Most of the time, only recent or important events she could remember, but often, randomly during the day, she'd see an image and suddenly remember someone else's thoughts.

She could remember the lives of four individuals, three of which were the _terrified victims _of her _bullying, _or so it was rumoured amongst the school staff. The fourth was a strange memory, one which she often forgot about, something she couldn't exactly remember taking. The minds she peaked in were mostly students and teachers, no one with such a strange, sinister past as the mind whose life she had captured at the back of her sub-conscience.

The memory belonged to an orphan named Tom. That much she knew. He led a rather similar life to hers, feared by the children and adults. Beyond the very early memories of innocence, the owner of this life lived in darkness, pain and suffering. There was so little emotion beyond triumph, hatred and greed. It worried Mistletoe a little. Though this Tom seemed to relish in his strength, his life had abruptly ended in absolute terror.

It wasn't a life Mistletoe wanted.

The snakes understood. The first time was when she was four. In the middle of the night, they called out to her and she ran to them.

"_This is a lonely, lonely world," _the snakes hissed. "_Tell me, child, speaker, do you know why we creatures are subjected to a life of rejection, hatred and fear?"_

"_The Bible says God punished the snake for enticing Eve into eating the forbidden fruit," _Mistletoe answered. _"The snake lost its legs, and Eve's children were cursed into hating it."_

"_Well said… we are hated, damned, ignored by the other creatures. We are feared. We are alone."_

"Freaks," Mistletoe muttered, thinking back to Aunt Tuney's favorite word.

"_You do not fear us," _one snake mused.

"_No, I don't."_

"_Tell me, human child, have you heard of a man called Salazar Slytherin?"_

It was a name Mistletoe couldn't help but ponder. Yes, she had heard. Tucked somewhere at the back of her mind, it was a name she knew she should remember, and fair enough, for most of her life, she would. But where exactly had she heard…?

"_It was so many years ago. I never met him, nor my mother, but his name is whispered among us…he was legendary…the first of them not to fear us…not to hate us…he understood us…spoke to us…just like you now…"_

"_What happened to him?"_

"_He was killed, eventually. Like us, he was feared, shunned. An anomaly among his own people. For a time, he lived with us, but the peace never lasted. Some say the same people who compelled him to leave, captured and tortured him until death finally took pity on him and ended his life. Others say it was treachery. We may never know."_

Indeed, as Death, I did. I took that life. One thousand years ago, it was. Salazar's eyes were very much like Mistletoe Potter's. They held the same essence of cold confidence, but they did not glow. They weren't, as Albus Dumbledore called it, the Mark of Death. Throughout his life, I came across Salazar Slytherin many times, all (except the last) of which had involved him pointing the wand at the struggling, tortured soul I would collect. When I finally captured him, it was with regret that I could not repeat the circumstances of his death as many times as he had killed. By the end, it simply wasn't worth it.

Of course, Mistletoe Potter didn't know any of this. She was intrigued, curious at the revered man. Years later, there will be a time when she will have the chance to meet him, and surprisingly, she will choose to decline.

"_Do you think he was one of my ancestors?"_ She asked.

"_He may well be. It was all so long ago. Our ancestors served his line for a while, but what was once greatness ate away to mere pity. His talent of snake-speak passed on, but not his nobility, his morality, and very little of his courage. Such a pity."_

Mistletoe thought briefly to her Aunt Tuney, who coveted Dudley like he was the second Jesus, Uncle Vernie who snorted when he laughed, and Dudley, who routinely managed straight D's on his school report – and was proud of them.

It was therefore the right decision, Mistletoe knew, when she decided to befriend the snakes. They would huddle together in a corner and talk for hours and hours. Sometimes, she'd bring one of them home. The snakes were cunning enough not to be caught, and their hisses, which she soon realised that only she understood, another talent of hers, would lull her to sleep.

She found she connected the most with child genius figures, other children who had excelled in something at an extremely young age. After first hearing about Wolfgang Mozart, the young boy who played the violin so perfectly at such a tender age, she became obsessed with finding children just like him, like her. It was so good to feel reassured that she wasn't all that freaky. Occasionally, Mistletoe would write to them and they'd always come up with answers that made her feel she wasn't alone.

It was two summers ago when Mistletoe met Ronald Weasley. Or more specifically, _the_ Weasleys.

She was participating in a chess tournament being held around children her age. Though Mistletoe knew her stronghold was not in the ever-popular game, it was easy to win when she put her mind down to forming tactics and strategies. It was a plus when the expressions of her opponents were so easy to read.

She had devised a carefully thought-out strategy which involved an army of pawns moving forward together destroying the first line of defense, then piercing the opponent at the heart of the battle, gaining rank in the process. Any fallen pawns would be replaced with her other pieces. The reason why the strategy worked so incredibly well was mostly because she moved her chess pieces at random, occasionally eating a bishop or knight here or there whilst sneakily moving her pawns forward. Most weren't aware of where she was heading until it was far too late.

There she was, playing her way to the top, when the only person left to compete against was Ron Weasley. A tall, gangly boy with freckles was all that stood between her and winning the chess tournament.

It wasn't anything formal. No, the tournament was held in a rather secluded area of town, one which Uncle Vernie had labeled 'freaky', and Ronald Weasley's entire family was hardly able to fit into the small hall.

All it took was a simple glance into the mind of Ron Weasley and Mistletoe suddenly understood everything. Almost. His mind was incredibly messy with plenty of made-up words which she supposed was a boy thing, but she had gotten the gist of things – all his life, Ronald had wanted to be great.

It wasn't very ambitious of him, Mistletoe thought. After all, she had a more specific goal – discover exactly what was stopping her from ruling the world, exterminate whatever it was, and proceed with her big strategy on just how she was going to manage. He, on the other hand, merely wished to stand out from his crowd of brothers, each more talented than he was.

She pitied him. The chess tournament was his one chance at 'being great', being noticed, and she thought he wasn't doing a very good job. He commanded the attention of his parents poorly and shied away from the crowd. Almost like her, except _she_ was reluctant to join the group of budding chess whizzes because she knew she was better than them. Mistletoe wondered what was bothering him, and reflected back to his mind, deciding on one sure thing – Ron Weasley was definitely at least fifteen per cent insane.

So when Ronald Weasley stuck out his hand, she sniffed at him with an air of disgust. The friendly look on his face may have suddenly dropped, but his family, who stood right behind him, nodded in approval, especially the woman she knew was his mother. Ronald, noticing his family's behaviour, turned a dangerous shade of purple and glared menacingly at her. She supposed he thought she was a snob, just like the rest of the shallow crowd.

No, Mistletoe had refrained from shaking Ron's hand because it was disgusting germinated with green slime. She wondered who had dipped his hand there, and congratulated them on doing so without the realisation of the boy himself. She then wondered whether her reaction had occurred more than once that day.

Mistletoe decided to be more benevolent and said to him with a slight smirk on her face, "Your hand, Ron? It's covered in green slime."

With a look of utter horror, Ron turned an even deeper shade of purple, almost reminding her of Aunt Tuney's vomit the time they had boarded a ferry destined for Europe. Very nasty. She suspected, at first glance, that he wouldn't be hard to beat.

She was, for once, wrongly mistaken. While her strategy, the line of pawns all moving forward to possess the opponent, had worked incredibly well with the previous twenty-eight competitors, Ron had taken full advantage of his rook, his queen and his bishop, even after she had annihilated all of his pawns. In fact, if she didn't know better, she'd say there was something about him that made him know, just know, what her plans were and see right through her.

But that didn't mean she gave up. She forced all her brain power and onto the game and gave it her all as she tried to decipher his moves through the messy works of his mind...

In the end, it was an extremely close match. Both were down to their kings, moving around the court aimlessly, waiting for the other to make the first move. After circling each other for a little over an hour, sometimes coming close to being eaten (especially Mistletoe, but she supposed he was too tired to realise), the judges finally realised that the game would probably never end, and gave the championship to both of them.

Ron's parents were so proud, clapping so loudly, even as he scowled. And Ron? Mistletoe shook her head at his attitude. Had Vernie or Tuney come, she would have put on a happy face, even if it meant letting go of her cold one.

But there was just something about Ron, something that made her think, that perhaps, he was just like her. She sifted through his mind, occasionally tidying up messes here or there, careful not to read too deep. There were words she had never before come across: Muggles, Hogwarts, Dumbledore and, most of all, Quidditch. She understood none of what they meant, except for one word, one which the snakes had often muttered about with pride. _Slytherin_.

That one word made her consider his talent – what if he was the same as her? Of course, he obviously wasn't as powerful – she doubted he could read minds or talk to snakes. But the inkling was there and she couldn't help but approach him after the game...

"Excuse me," she'd uttered loudly, a little stunned when suddenly under the curious gaze of the entire Weasley tribe.

Before the rest of his family had recovered, Ron, still a little put out, said rudely, "yes?"

Mistletoe smiled, almost mocking him with her politeness. "I don't believe we've met before. My name's Mistletoe. I'd like to congratulate you on winning the title."

He sent her another murderous, and a little incredulous, glare. "Yeah, yeah. Just rub it in, why don't you?" he muttered. "Bloody Slytherin."

Mistletoe raised an eyebrow. Slytherin. There was that name again, once again uttered. A hiss ran through her. She'd almost forgotten one of her snakes' presence around her waist. He may not have understood any word apart from 'Slytherin' but the boy's tone was evident. She glared at him, knowing her chilling green eyes were illuminating. She honestly didn't care. "Excuse me?" she hissed. "Slytherin is twenty times the mastermind you'll ever hope to become."

Perhaps it was the fact that she had heard his mutter, perhaps it was because she had retaliated, exposing her knowledge of just who Slytherin was, or maybe it was the small fact that her eyes were glowing a rather sinister colour, but suddenly, the entire Weasley clan paled and stared at her in a mixture of awe, suspicion and terror.

One of Ron's many brothers, one who looked especially prim and proper, stared at her almost in recognition. "M-merry – I mean, Mistletoe _Potter_?" he squeaked, shoving his hand at her. His sister, the youngest, squeaked.

She nodded, a little perplexed at the attitude of these Weasleys. Deciding to add onto the exterior image of haughtiness, she sniffed again, taking his hand nonetheless. "It's nice to know that at least some of us have manners." She smiled at him, taking a brief peak into his mind at the same time. "Isn't that right...Percy Weasley?"

Percy was the opposite of his younger brother. He had ambition, a burning ambition that so rivaled her own. She knew, for sure, that he also had talent. His goal was to work in a ministry of sorts, and lacked the jealousy and bitterness Ronald had. Percy, she decided, would be a nice acquaintance to make.

"Wow, you certainly have ambition, Percy Weasley," she casually. "So much ambition. Keep it up. It's good to thirst for greatness sometimes."

She glanced, satisfied at his utterly incredulous face and the startled expression of the rest of his pack. Then she placed the money she had won, half of what had been the initial prize, into Ron's frozen hands. "Take it. I'm sure your family needs the money more than I do."

Then with a wink, she stepped away, moving hastily out of the Weasleys' clutches. They only looked horrified. Completely, utterly horrified.

Note:

This chapter only half-satisfied me. I didn't want Mistletoe to sound like a complete cold bitch, but I wanted her to have a childhood that clearly lacked love and affection. I'm not sure if the snake thing worked, but she deserved a pal, and none of the children seemed to fit her, and other animals seemed too…cuddly.

The part with Percy is something that has always caught me. I mean, Percy's so ambitious, and he has the Slytherin quality of using whatever it takes to reach a means (exhibit: 5th year, dumping the family for the Ministry), so why exactly was he Sorted into Gryffindor of all places? Percy's such a rule-abider: he certainly isn't headstrong, and there's not much to be said about his courage. As for wit, he's so prudish it's almost incredible that Fred and George are his brothers.

For the readers out there that like a supportive Ron, just remember that Ron's still an easily offended character, and that he was an ordinary character who only turned into Harry's best friend because Ron was too slow in finding his compartment. The part about the hand was Fred and Georg pranking him.

Hoped this chapter was good enough, folks! Review, any comments welcome.

MaskWithATruth


	5. Introducing the Malfoys and Snape

Okay. So before I get back onto the story, I'd like to point out some issues a reviewer mentioned. (Thanks, by the way! You mentioned quite a few issues I realised I haven't really explained as well as I should have.)

Mistletoe. Truly, what kind of a name is that? But who was I to give such a character a boring name? I mean, hardly any of the Wizarding characters have plausible names – Mundungus? _Nymphadora_? It had to be a name that contrasted with Harry's name. Plus, seeing as mistletoe is all red and green, it kind of fit Mistletoe's complexion.

Okay. Mistletoe is NOT meant to be likeable. She's supposed to be stuck-up and frigid, kind of like another Parceltongue who was also a morbid kid. You're right if you're guessing Tom Riddle. I just wanted Mistletoe to get a taste of what being Riddle was like. Therefore, I'm also opening the possibility of her either straying towards Riddle's path or changing her fate this time round.

Mistletoe is definitely NOT all-powerful. She mostly just thinks she is, but she actually has a major problem concerning her magic. You'll understand when she goes to Hogwarts. But for the time being, just think back and try to remember if she's actually performed any accidental magic.

The Dursleys, let me repeat, do NOT, that's right, DO NOT love Mistletoe. But she is treated better than Harry because she earned her worth. No matter what the Dursleys say or think, Mistletoe is the one who bought them all the wealth. And just like any other greedy person, they strive after wealth, and she is the key to their success. Would they lock that key in a cupboard under the stairs? I think not.

The Petunia Dursley in my story is a squib for a reason. If you read over the prologue, you might notice some clues as to why that may be the case.

Some might think I'm treating James and Sirius a little hard in Petunia's chapter. Firstly, remember that this is Petunia's thinking we're reading about. If she thinks Dudley is the light of her life, who's to say her ideas about other things aren't just as biased? And don't forget that Petunia Dursley treated Lily badly as well. Imagine every time Lily was rejected and how she would vent out to her boyfriend. James is probably just an overprotective guy who's never heard Petunia's side of the story. Plus, James and Sirius aren't exactly saints – Severus Snape says it all.

Disclaimed: Harry Potter will forever be JK Rowling's creation.

The following chapter contains thoughts of Mistletoe Potter, mentions of thee Dursleys, quantitative sections containing the Malfoys, healthy doses of Severus Snape, Albus Dumbledore, brief mentions of Quirinus Quirrell, Dolores Umbridge, and Sybill Trelawney.

Chapter Five: In which a kidnapping is fashioned

INTRODUCING THE MALFOYS

The first Mistletoe noticed about Mr Malfoy was his wicked hairstyle. Even though long hair, according to Aunt Tuney, was _quite out of fashion at the mo_, Mistletoe quickly decided that the appearance of Lucius Malfoy in such attire would definitely bring it back. The man was also holding a rather elegant (and lethal) looking cane in one hand, the shiny shape of a scull embedded into the metal handle. His dress was formal, too formal for such a party being held on Victoria Street, but his air of arrogance and distain, which Mistletoe could only assume was natural, fitted his expensive clothing like a satin glove.

The next thing she realised was that she couldn't read his mind.

It was such a blow to her arrogance that she grew humble for a few seconds. Then she tried to pierce his mind again, only to fail once more backwards. It was as if a strong brick wall was layered around Mr Malfoy's head. As soon as she tried a third time, Mr Malfoy suddenly stopped inspecting Uncle Vernie's appearance and turned his head swiftly round to face her.

His face was utterly expressionless. Quite a shock to her, really. Hardly an ounce of emotion was present on his face. If his features were a display shelf, it seemed that the shelf would have been unused for quite some time.

"Mistletoe Potter, I presume?" he said, his voice void of feelings. Uncle Vernie wanted to answer for her, for fear of the unusual, but something about Mr Malfoy's expression stopped him. Aunt Tuney too decided to keep to chatting with her gossiping friends, shooting a suspicious glance towards them. Dudley, of course, was too immersed in the wonderful world of chocolate mud cake to care.

Mistletoe decided to scare the man a little, as she had with the Weasleys. "Lucius Malfoy, I presume?" she replied in almost the same tone, allowing a bit of surprise to seep through.

She was far from satisfied when only a hint of emotion seemed to flit through his face. On the fourth try at invading his mind, she found that she had half succeeded. The solid, unbreakable wall was crippling and the barrier between her and his mind were thinning...she caught a glimpse of darkness and an ominous-looking mask before she was rudely thrown out. A sharp headache was forming at an alarming speed, and she knew that it was Mr Malfoy who was the cause.

Half aware that an eerie silence was passing between their gathering, though nothing seemed quiet to Mistletoe, she gave him a glare, finally resorting to throwing him off his guard. She finally succeeded when Mr Malfoy's mask wavered, an expression of fear and pain overcoming his features. A gasp sounded, echoing across the room. Mistletoe finally, reluctantly, broke free from Mr Malfoy's gaze and turned, for the first time, to look behind him.

An tall woman with pale, aristocratic features, stared at her with the same cold air as Malfoy, but displayed her emotions more freely, allowing a touch of curiosity adorn her face. The boy she was desperately clutching on to had the same white-blonde hair as his father, and she could just tell that he had come reluctantly.

Mr Malfoy seemed to have realised who she was gazing at and took the initiative of introducing his family. Both of them knew, however, that the other's mind was elsewhere.

She wondered what business such a man had on Victoria Street, towing his family along with him, but even more, she began to wonder if there were even more of them out there.

So she wasn't exactly unique. Perhaps, seeing as somehow, for the first time, someone had actually managed to block her mind invasions, she wasn't very, very powerful. Yet.

But the thought that he had caused her pain, such an agonising headache, ashamed her. Such a disappointment.

"Draco," Mr Malfoy suddenly said, bringing her out of her thoughts, "why don't you ask Miss Potter for a dance?"

A rather unexpected turn of events. It seemed that Mr Malfoy was unaware of the fact that less grand parties didn't force people to waltz or wring out a salsa. Currently, no one was dancing. Many, however, were making curious glances at the Malfoys.

The two children fixed each other with a scrutinising stare. "Of course, Father," the boy drawled in a nearly identical tone to his father's. Mistletoe refrained from scoffing. Judging by his hint of a sneer, she could just imagine 'of course, Father' secretly being interpreted as 'I suppose, if you pay me back for this later'.

The two of them stayed still and silent, waiting for the other to say something first.

"I do hope you'll be asking her one of these days," his father said, a warning undertone evident as he addressed his son.

The boy scowled, grabbing her hand roughly. "Of course, I do consent to your charming invitation," Mistletoe said sweetly.

He glared at her as soon as they reached to dance floor, pulling her into some sort of waltz. Though Mistletoe had proven that a lot could be achieved at nine (and a half) years of age, she was awed by the fact that such a child could dance so professionally well. She was thankful that she was graceful enough not to trip over her own feet.

Potter," he finally acknowledged.

"Malfoy," she mused, sounding amused at his irritation. "You seem extremely jubilant at the idea of mingling with commoners."

He sneered. This time, she realised, it was at the curious bystanders who were glancing their way. "Look at them," he muttered bitterly, "the lot of them. Such filth dominating the top of the food chain. My grandparents would turn in their graves."

She understood him, almost understood him. It was true – she too believed she was better, but to address the matter so freely...who gave Malfoy the right? Tempted, she gazed into his mind, lightly in case he was as sensitive as his father. His mind was like a hallway of portraits, each covered with a black cloak, hidden on the surface, but not difficult to decipher. It was almost as if her gift could be trained and learned, and Malfoy was doing just that. Perhaps just as his father had.

No. It couldn't be. Just considering the fact was making her tremble in rage. This was her gift. Hers. She was special. She just had to be.

If Malfoy noticed her silent inner-conflict, he gave no inclination. "Filthy muggles and mudbloods," he continued. "As Mother would say, 'such scum'."

Briefly, Mistletoe wondered if there was anything else Malfoy might be interested in talking about. "Pray tell, what are muggles and mudbloods?"

The words, swirling in her mind, sounded rather familiar. Where had she heard them before...?

Malfoy seemed rather affected at the idea that she didn't understand him. "You're the Girl Who Lived and you don't know who muggles are? Blimey, what have they told you?"

Mistletoe blinked. "About what?"

"Well," the boy began, "obviously about the magi - "

"Draco!" Mr Malfoy seemed to appear out of nowhere, causing both of them to jump. "We'll be leaving our hosts to attend to other guests."

Draco almost seemed a little disappointed. "But, Father - "

"Come, Draco," his mother said smoothly, "we have previous obligations to attend to."

Without another glance, the Malfoys glided across the hallway and exited the way they came. Almost immediately, the party returned to normal, though Aunt Tuney seemed a little confronted at their abrupt exit.

Such an abrupt _visit_. To her, it almost seemed like a peculiar daydream. _...in the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo..._

It almost felt like the Malfoys had come here with a purpose, to do something, and they'd left when it was done.

*

*

*

There are, however, many sides to the story. The greasy-haired potions-obsessed Slytherin they knew in their fifth year is just one of them.

All his life, Severus Snape has been forgotten, laughed at, rejected, and, during his fifth Christmas, under the delusion that theirs would be spent in France, left behind. A second thought not really worth it. A greying memory no one bothers with. But perhaps, a few years too late, it's his turn now...

INTRODUCING SEVERUS SNAPE

Severus Snape was currently trying his best not to scowl.

This, of course, was turning out to be extremely difficult, especially seeing as how he nearly always scowled. For a bitter look to adorn his face was as natural to him as breathing. And restraining from something as common to him as breathing was apparently turned out to be near impossible.

The reason Severus Snape was scowling-but-trying-not-to was, as usual, Albus Dumbledore. It was that time of year again. The time of year that resulted in Severus stirring his potions seven times anti-clockwise instead of seventeen clockwise, adding monkswood instead of monkshood to his truth serum, and, shockingly, even ruining a good cauldron or two. Those of the faculty who had experienced Severus's nervous state before undoubtedly understood that it was, indeed, that time of year, and left him to his anxieties.

The Headmaster smiled at him like he would to an ungrateful child. "Severus, you must understand my decision."

Truthfully, he did not. Snape glared. "Obviously, Headmaster, or I would not be trying for the eight consecutive time since my post as the blasted Potions Master," he said, letting his sarcasm get the better of him.

Dumbledore blinked, a little surprised. "Severus, why the spite?"

"You are aware, I trust," Severus said icily, "that only three others are also applying for the same position? Quirinus Quirrell, the measly professor of Muggle Studies whose boggart is most likely a flobberworm, Dolores Umbridge, who seems to be under the delusion that she can, in fact, teach, and Sybill Trelawney who may well be under the Imperius Curse to even consider applying for the post? I, currently, am rather amused by whatever decision you hope to make between the three of them." Severus rolled his eyes.

"Though, Headmaster, I do implore you to see reason and discourage _dear_ Trelawney. In light of the Dark Lord's impending return, we cannot afford the students sending themselves to their graves without raising a finger under the assumption that their deaths were inevitably predicted five months before hand."

Snape 1, Dumbledore 0.

Dumbledore smiled benevolently. "Why, Severus, how are you so sure that the three applicants whose forms you so happened to chance upon while snooping in my office last week for, as you say, a spare tub of lemon drops, were the only ones?"

Snape 1, Dumbledore 1. Snape, to put it universally, scowled. "Headmaster, I implore you. Let me - "

Dumbledore raised a hand to stop him from continuing. "I implore _you_, Severus, to remain at your present post. You are doing a superb job."

"I would do even better if only you'll give me a chance!" he snapped. "Why, Albus? Why? Haven't I already proven my loyalty? Do you still doubt me after all these years?"

Dumbledore stared at him with his shocking blue eyes, still so vibrant after all seeing so much the average eye would never see. It was with the same stare that the Headmaster had bestowed upon Snape all the many years ago, on one of his sixth year's full moons, spent breathing and thinking heavily in the Hospital Wing. "Severus. Please."

What would Severus have said next?

Would his words sway the Headmaster's decision?

Would his future be any different?

Fate forgot, just like the others in Severus Snape's life refused, to give him a chance.

Instead, their conversation was rudely interrupted by one Lucius Malfoy.

It was a rather unexpected visit, and Lucius was usually a man of expectations. He carried himself in such a stiff disposition even for a Malfoy. Severus couldn't help but speculate that something was incredibly wrong.

"Dumbledore," Lucius acknowledged grudgingly. He glanced fleetingly at Severus and nodded briefly, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Dumbledore acted unaffected. "Lucius," he greeted, as if addressing a close friend. "I trust things are well with the Board?"

Lucius hesitated. "Dumbledore," he drawled slowly, "how familiar are you with the law?"

Severus glanced between them, wondering if he should leave the room. Neither, it seemed, cared for his presence. Many scarcely did.

Dumbledore gave a happy shrug. "About as familiar as I am with Stringbough's Laws of Transfigurations."

Severus regarded the aristocrat with suspicious eyes. Lucius Malfoy was, without a doubt, plotting something.

"Then I am sure you would understand that the use of Legilimency on any person is illegal?"

Severus stiffened slightly. Lucius, it seemed, was not aiming the finger at him. What confused him was why _Lucius_ of all people would suddenly pay deep attention to a part of the law long broken by many.

"Earlier on this evening," Lucius continued, "I _chanced_ upon a rather _curious_ individual at a certain function I was asked to attend."

Severus had the distinct feeling that whatever Lucius Malfoy was on about had something to do with blackmail. Expect Lucius was rarely the type to open his heart out to the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

Dumbledore, it seemed, was thinking a similar idea. "I trust, Lucius, that you are able to handle the situation yourself?"

Lucius sneered. "Mistletoe Potter was performing Legilimency almost simultaneously on just about every individual in the room, despite the fact that anyone who does is immediately sent to Azkaban!"

Snape's head shot up. Mistletoe Potter? Legilimency? The last he had heard of the Potter brat, she was living with the Muggles on Number Four Privet Drive. Had Lucius Malfoy finally lost his mind under the strain of the returning Dark Lord?

"Now, now, Lucius," Dumbledore continued in such a tone that suggested he was soothing a child. Severus admired his nerve. "If there were traces of Legilimency present, then let me assure you, young Miss Potter cannot surely be at fault."

Lucius glared menacingly. Snape truly could not discern just who here had the greater courage. "Let me assure _you_, Albus, that the Girl Who Lived was one of, if not the only, magical presence in the room worth noting. Not counting my wife and son, of course," he added.

Severus raised an eyebrow. "And since when, Lucius," he decided to add in a curious tone, "were you ever in the presence of muggles?"

Lucius smiled coldly at him. "Let's just say that this was a rather interesting case, shall we?"

Albus interrupted before Snape could reply. "Truly, Lucius, what do you expect me to do?"

"Are you not the Headmaster of Hogwarts School? Do you not hold strong influence over the Wizengamot and Minister Fudge, as do I?" Lucius glared again. "The brat, let me assure you, is the most condescending child I have and will ever meet!"

Of course. The facts were all there. Mistletoe Potter was a Potter. She was his brat, his spawn. Severus shouldn't have expected anything else. So then why was he suddenly so disappointed?

Had he hoped that Lily Evans's child would turn out just like her? Had he wished, desperately, that every fibre of James Potter the child held had been brutally destroyed that fateful Halloween night? Could he not allow himself to wish, just wish, that the child would be a Lily and not a James?

"I suppose that is to be expected," Snape said bitterly. "After all, the brat is James Potter's spawn."

"Indeed, Severus, indeed," Lucius continued. "Among...colleagues, shall we say, I realised at an early stage that Mistletoe Potter was incredibly arrogant. I, too, brushed comments off, reminding myself that James Potter was once also arrogant and his child could be no different. She would eventually grow out of it, as Potter had."

Lucius glided across the Headmaster's office, pausing here and there to inspect peculiar instruments. "But it was not until my curiosity overruled me and I decided to meet the girl myself," he continued, "that I realised just how arrogant she has become under the care of such filth."

"Lucius," Albus said warningly.

"Oh, Dumbledore, you may pretend all you like that the Dursleys are the right choice for the Girl Who Lived to spend her childhood years with, but I shall not be as disillusioned." Lucius turned to Snape. "I believe, Severus, that you are somewhat acquainted with the brat's aunt?"

Severus scowled. "I have yet to meet a more magic-hating woman," he muttered. "She was blinded by her jealousy and hatred of her sister as to ever consider magic a blessing."

"And there you have it, Dumbledore. As of now, I can only conclude that Mistletoe Potter's arrogance is the result of living with such misguided people."

"Exactly how big-headed is she, Lucius?" Severus asked softly.

"Arrogant enough to believe she can get away with performing such a magnitude of Legilimency at a five-mile radius," Malfoy snarled. "Listen here, Dumbledore. Seeing as the brat will one day turn out to be a student of Hogwarts, it is within both of our rights, I as a school governor and you as its headmaster, to do something about her."

Dumbledore nodded. "I see. Any suggestions, Lucius?"

Malfoy glared once again. "I suggest you teach her some restraint. And Occlumency. Immediately."

The swift exit of Lucius Malfoy left both the Headmaster and Snape momentarily speechless.

Severus fumbled a bit, unsure of what to say, or whether he should speak at all. Dumbledore's mind seemed to be elsewhere, and Snape could only hope another devious plan would not be set in place.

"Headmaster?"

Albus blinked. His blue eyes drew from their glazed place and fell warmly onto Snape. "My dear boy," he said softly. "I sense another horror approaching."

Without another word, Fawkes the phoenix flew gracefully forward, a whirlwind of gold and red that made Severus nauseous, and landed with equal elegance on the robed arm of the Headmaster. "I think, Fawkes," he muttered quietly, "that it is time for you to make another journey."

*

*

*

Severus craned his head forward as far as his courage allowed him, desperately wanting to see what Dumbledore was writing on his parchment. The letter, or note, was short, perhaps even just a few words, and when Dumbledore was finished, he tapped his wand at the parchment and tucked it into his phoenix's beak, winking at Snape as he did.

"Headmaster," he began cautiously, "whatever plan you have - "

"Tell me, Severus," Dumbledore said, "do you have any idea why Lucius Malfoy came to me this evening?" Dumbledore twirled his lavish quill in the air. "Why Albus Dumbledore? The very man his lord despises? If he needed a confidante, you, Severus, would have done well. But why me?"

"Albus," Snape said impatiently, "what are you - "

"I suspect, my boy, that Lucius Malfoy is scared."

"Of Potter?" Snape muttered sceptically. "Please, Albus. No matter how powerful Mistletoe Potter claims herself to be, she is still a child who has yet to hear of magic. Lucius, on the other hand, is a grown man."

"Ah, yes, and that is just the reason why he decided to make his move now, when the child is still a child, easily influenced and controlled. Lucius Malfoy was aware of that when he met Miss Potter tonight." Albus' eyes twinkled. "Think again, my boy. What has shown to Lucius that he may not have full control over the child?"

"Her being a natural at Legilimency," he promptly answered, "and not just any natural; an exceptionally powerful one at that. But what does that - "

"Lucius Malfoy," the Headmaster said softly in a serious tone, "has just met a powerful natural Legilimens who has most likely broken through his mind barriers and seen his mind – his thoughts, his habits, his talents...and his past."

The Potions Master's eyes widened in comprehension. "Lucius is frightened that she may know of his current alliance?"

"Past alliance, Severus," Albus corrected. "It is possible that the girl spent long enough inside to sift through the whole of his mind. It may no longer be a question of _if_ she knows, but _when_ she will remember his life story through the flicks of memory she would have beheld."

"Think of it as having a dream, Severus," he continued, "a little event that may last for hours is compressed to last, in reality, a dream of a mere second or two. When one wakes from the dream, it is often that one forgets it, except for the slight inkling that something had occurred. It is possible that Miss Potter shall never remember, as the typical dreamer would not."

Albus sighed as he glanced out of his office window, at the retreating figure of Fawkes. "But then again, Mistletoe Potter has proven, time and again, that she is clearly not typical. We can only hope that things will run differently this time round."

Severus eyed the Headmaster curiously, wondering what he was saying. "Care to explain, Dumbledore?"

The old wizard ignored him, continuing with his musings. "I suspect Lucius is afraid of the tremendous potential Miss Potter has. With the sway she holds over the Wizarding world, it is more than likely his reputation will forever be tarnished should she care to reveal his shady past as Death Eater."

On the other hand, if word were to get out that Legilimency, a forbidden form of advanced magic had been performed by a child as young as nine, trouble would inevitably brew at the Ministry, and no doubt their solution to the problem would be to place the blame on Mistletoe Potter, should Lucius Malfoy's precarious past stay a secret."

Mr Malfoy hopes that as a future father figure of the young Miss Potter, I may dissuade her from whatever he fears. Perhaps by controlling her Legilimency, which I surmise is as natural to her as breathing, he hopes that she would restrain from discovering further ploys of Lord Voldemort that include himself. She is young, Severus, and her abilities will certainly grow over time."

"And what do you expect me to do about that?" Snape demanded. He had a feeling he knew where this conversation was heading.

Albus smiled softly. "Severus, please."

Snape sensed a horrible headache emerging in the near future. "Can't this wait, Albus?" he hissed, massaging his temples with trembling hands, "two years. Just two more years until the blasted brat comes to Hogwarts - "

"I'm afraid not, my boy," the Headmaster said gravely. "Voldemort is out there. He's gaining power at an incredible speed, fuelled by hatred and greed. When he does return, the first thing he does can only be to kill the one thing that ever defeated him – Mistletoe Potter."

"And why me, Dumbledore? Why not Quirrell, or Umbridge or _dear_ Sybill? Why me?"

Dumbledore smiled, eyes twinkling. "You are, after all, one of the greatest Occlumens of this time."

He glared. "_One _of, Albus. Which, might I add, includes you as well."

The Headmaster shook his head sadly. "This is not my specific area of studies, Severus."

"And yet to still deny me the post as Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor," Severus growled.

"Perhaps, my boy, one day..."

Would Albus Dumbledore have promised his empty promise?

Would Severus Snape have left the office with more satisfaction than when he entered?

Fate, unfortunately, forgot to give Severus Snape the chance.

The Potions Master glared. "Fine," he barked. "I'll do it. The things I do for you, Dumbledore..."

And Severus Snape, never knowing others were offered one, went on living without it.

*

*

*

*

*

Mistletoe Henrietta Petronica Potter didn't quite know how it happened.

One minute, there she was, sipping her cup of chocolate at breakfast whilst checking the recent share market in the newspaper, in mid-sentence of questioning her uncle whether he'd sold his Frugal shares yet or not, and the next thing she knew, her aunt was shrieking bloody murder, a frightening man dressed in black stormed into the kitchen with the darkest scowl she ever imagined seeing, and pointed a _stick_ at her face.

It seemed a rather peculiar dream to have at first, especially since she was sure she'd already bugged her uncle to sell his Frugal shares and couldn't imagine why she'd ask the same thing twice. That and the fact that someone was hoping to achieve something by pointing a wooden stick at her face. She briefly wondered what the man thought he was doing.

"I will speak, Potter," the man, donned completely in black, hissed "and you will listen."

Mistletoe raised an eyebrow. Normally, if someone were to treat her with unjust, she would scavenge their mind for clues of this misbehaviour then use them to her advantage. But because this was a dream, she allowed herself to be entertained by whatever this man, who Aunt Tuney would definitely think of as having no fashion sense whatsoever, had to say.

"Go on," she said, bemused. "I'm all ears."

The man, in all his ferocity, was unable to meet her eyes. In fact, he seemed so disturbed by her presence that his face was turned completely away from her. Quite an advantage, especially if one was to make threats. Glancing at the Dursleys, she realised they were staring at the man in fright, not at all too keen about doing anything with the wooden stick that was still pointed at a spot between Mistletoe's eyes.

"Very well," he continued swiftly, head still turned away, "I trust you are not aware of the fact that Legilimency, which you have been repeatedly performing on those around you, is illegal?"

Mistletoe blinked. She hadn't seen this coming. "Legilimency," she repeated slowly, liking the way it sounded on her tongue. That had to be her mind-reading skills he was referring to. Worriedly, she deduced that if there was a name for the prowess she held against others, then perhaps her abilities weren't so special after all. "And just what are you and your stick going to do about that? You lack proof."

The man sneered. "I assure you, Potter, that this _wand_ which I currently hold has the potential of inflicting far more harm upon you, which I will gladly assist in, should you not comply. Answer me now, truthfully – Are you or are you not aware that harnessing Legilimency is illegal?"

"No," she answered abruptly.

Perhaps this wasn't a dream after all. She considered stepping into his mind, performing Legilimency or whatever he assumed it was, for some clues, but had a feeling that doing so wouldn't aid her in any way. She then considered calling forth one of her snakes but then decided that there was far more to that wooden stick, or _wand_ as the man was delusional in believing, than what she first thought of it as. So she decided to wait and listen.

"Just like your father," the man sneered, "never bothering about the rules."

"And look where it got him," she continued in false pity, "quite dead with my mother, yes?"

There was a pause, as if this was obviously not the answer the man expected, then he swivelled round for the first time, eyes ablaze, face the epitome of fury.

"I will not tolerate talking back!" he snarled.

Mistletoe would have cringed, had she not seen the emotion in his eyes. There was more to this fury – a startling amount of surprise, incredulity and disappointment. Perhaps this man knew her parents. His mouth opened, at first almost to spit at her, then seeming to form the start of a sentence but remembered his place and thought better.

"How long have you performed Legilimency?" he spat.

Mistletoe shrugged. "A while."

The man glared, his face so intensified by hatred and rage that Mistletoe feared a heart attack. "How. Long?" he growled.

She glared. "For as long as I can remember. If you want the specific date, ask my aunt."

And suddenly, the terrible burden of being interrogated with a wooden stick vanished and cast itself on Aunt Petunia. "S-she conversed w-with us with h-her mind ever s-since she w-was one," her aunt spluttered.

"Y-you take your stuff off her!" Vernon roared, discovering his wits for the first time. "Just l-leave her alone!"

Uncle Vernon's nervous eyes were darting furiously between the man's wand and his gun, which he hung proudly on the kitchen wall. The man, however, realised this and said menacingly, "I'd like to see you try, Dursley." At the sight of the stick, Vernon gulped.

"And frankly, I'd like to see _you_ try," Mistletoe drawled, a little bored at the rate they were going at.

The man whipped around faster than she could blink. "Don't patronise me, Potter," the man hissed. And there is was again, that emotion in his eyes as he looked at her, that made her smirk drop a little, her boredom shift a little. Just who was this man and what was he doing?

"I'd like some answers if you want your interrogation to proceed the way you wish," she continued, tone business-like. "Exactly who are you?"

"I will be your worst nightmare, if you continue speaking in that tone, Potter," he hissed. "I am - "

"Severus Snape," another voice whimpered. The two of them whipped round to find that Petunia, who had safely lodged herself behind Vernon, starring at him in dawning comprehension. "You're one of them!" she suddenly shrieked, "you were the first one, the one who took Lily astray."

Mistletoe turned back to the man, white with rage and horror. "Care to explain, anyone?" she asked casually. "Are you in a cult, Severus Snape? Do you point wooden sticks at innocent girls demanding answers for an occupation? Am I to expect the same fate as this _Lily_?"

Severus Snape was silent.

"You're going to force her to that horrible school of yours, aren't you? And she's not even eleven yet." Petunia continued. "I suppose now's the time when you'll be telling her how _great_ and _powerful_ she is and how _amazing_ your stupid little fairytale castle is. And now my niece is going to meet the same end as _her_. Happy now?" Mistletoe expected an explosion but nothing happened. Petunia Dursley continued. "She was my best friend, Snape! My _only_ friend at times. And you took that away from me. You took away my twin, my other half! Brilliant, aren't you? _You sent her to her death_!"

Mistletoe stiffened slightly at Petunia's words. Aunt Tuney had a twin? She wondered why she had never dwelled deeper into her relatives' minds. She'd dismissed them as too boring to have ever held an interesting past.

Snape, it seemed, was in pain. Funny, how the woman he had threatened seconds ago, was the one causing it. "Enough!" he snarled, a feeble attempt at reverting to his original state of pure anger. "Be quiet, Petunia." He turned back to Mistletoe. "Listen here, Potter, listen carefully. You're a witch."

Mistletoe blinked. "A witch," she repeated. "Are you sure?"

Snape snorted. "Expected something a little better?" he sneered. "You're no fairy princess, Potter."

That was blunt. It left Mistletoe feeling far less satisfied than she had been, not knowing who she really was. A witch. In the end, that was all she really was. What had she expected, a bleeding miracle?

"Will you burn me at the stakes now?" she asked bitterly.

"Stupid girl," Snape yelled. "I happen to be a wizard. You'll be going with me now to - "

"Here, now, freak," Vernon suddenly burst out, taking his wife's example at surprisingly them with his courage. "You won't be taking her with you anywhere, do you hear? She'll be staying here with us, and when she's eleven she'll be going to Saint Cuthbert's Fine Institution for Young Ladies, not Hodgewarts, or anywhere else with freaks in it."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "And I suppose you'll be the one to stop me if I do?"

"Actually," Mistletoe piped up, "_I_ will."

There was silence as Snape turned to stare at her, again with the same look that almost made her feel guilty. A ghost of a triumphant smile adorned Petunia's lips and Vernon nodded approvingly.

"Frankly, Snape, learning about being a witch doesn't interest me much. I mean, here's me and my goal to rule the world and going to a school full of kids like me just may destroy whatever sense of individuality I have. Then how'll I go about ruling the world? Besides," she added, "I was doing fine the first nine years of my life. No need to start now."

"And there you have it, freak," Uncle Vernon bellowed, "my niece doesn't want to go to your stupid school so you'd better not take her away from our plans!"

"Your plans," Snape sneered, "do they consist of her education or your career, Dursley? I wonder."

"Why you - "

And quite simply put, Mistletoe was irritated. The whole ordeal with Severus Snape had continued long enough. It was time he left Victoria Street in peace. "Look, Snape," she said, "I've said it already but I'll say it again, just in case you missed it last time. I won't be going anywhere with you. I don't care that I'm a witch. I've got bigger goals. Understood?"

He scowled. If that didn't work, she decided to intimidate him a little. She glared with her emerald, glowing eyes, almost hearing Vernon's nervous heartbeat three feet away. "Understood?" she repeated, eyes boring into his.

If there had been any flash of fear, Snape hid it faster than anyone Mistletoe had ever come across. The next instant, Snape's stick was pointing at her again and she suddenly found that she couldn't move.

"Enough!" the man yelled. "Potter, I've taken your attitude for far too long. It's time you learned some lessons."

And then Mistletoe, whose frustration grew when she realised she had no control over her body, suddenly found herself shrinking. The world was becoming smaller and smaller, the Dursleys bigger and bigger, until...Severus Snape picked her up with one hand and put her in his pocket! Darkness enveloped her as if she was in an empty void. Of course, of all the colours one could wear, Snape inevitably chose black.

"Say good-bye to your niece, Dursley," she heard Snape snarl, "you and your company's investors won't be seeing each other for quite some time."

Mistletoe panicked. She was being kidnapped by a wizard who was going to take her God knew where. "Sell your Frugal shares, Uncle Vernie!" She shrieked. "And for God's sake, buy the Quichey shares already."

"Your niece says to sell your Frugal shares," Snape transmitted, "and do buy the Quichey shares before Christmas, will you?"

*

*

*

Wow. That was some chapter. Of course, depending on the amount of reviews I get, the length of the next chapter could be even longer.

Any idea, anyone, on who Fawkes was sending the letter to?

Ideas for possible pairings, guys? Who do you think Mistletoe should one day end up with? No one? A Weasley? A Malfoy? Snape? Or some other character waiting to be introduced?

Who do you think the DADA professor should be?

Next chapter: Our heroine learns a lesson on humility, a problem is discovered and the year's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor is revealed.

MaskWithATruth


	6. Introducing Humility

This chapter includes: A LOT of Severus Snape, plenty of Mistletoe Potter, Mrs Figg, Percy Weasley, Fred and George Weasley, Ron Weasley, Fawkes the pheonix, mentions of Ginny, mentions of Lily, mentions of Avery and Mulciber, mentions of Bellatrix Lestrange, mentions of James Potter, mentions of Lord V, mentions of Albus Dumbledore, brief mentions of the Dursleys, brief implication to the Snapes.

Here, we continue our journey, following Mistletoe, our heroine, and Severus Snape, an almost-forgotten character, as they begin their journey, unaware of the perils that lie ahead, as I do. Oblivious to the impending doom, a hanging sunset close, so close to crashing onto the hard surface of the Earth at any time.

Very soon, so very soon, both are about to learn a lesson.

INTRODUCING HUMILITY

It was strange, Mistletoe thought, to be rudely stored in the pocket of a stranger. Particularly one who deemed himself a wizard. But as their journey continued for quite some time, Mistletoe stopped worrying about Uncle Vernon's Frugal shares, and began to contemplate the fact that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't going to see her relatives for quite some time.

There were quite a few things Mistletoe had realised concerning Severus Snape:

1. He was a wizard, the male equivalent of what he had called her, a witch. Which meant that whatever she could do, he most likely could too.

2. He had an instrument of value, a wand precisely. He had pointed it continuously at the space between her eyes, which evidently depicted the wand to be something of danger. Practically lethal. Like, say, a gun.

3. He had a wand. She didn't.

But being held in a pocket, one so constrained she could not stand up nor crouch without being rudely careened forward, back, up or down (there really was no difference; any way was met painfully), thinking came not as easily and contemplation was constantly interrupted by stumbling and slight leaps as Severus Snape went up, then down, a long set of stairs. She'd given up yelling at him. For one, he didn't answer, though she knew he could hear, as he had when she had farewelled his uncle with financial advice. For another, talking to him meant shouting to him, and she wasn't prepared for a hoarse soundbox.

Her uncle had mentioned a school called Hodgewarts. It almost interested her to be with other witches and wizards like her. She thought about Saint Cuthberts' Fine Institution for Young Ladies, imagining their obtusely-angled noses and their finely-starched skirts. At a daily social gathering like that, she would fit right in. Then she thought about Hodgewarts. What sort of people would be going? The Weasleys? The Malfoys? Hell, even children like Severus Snape? She shuddered at the thought of such grim, sombre children.

Quite a while later, she woke only to realise that she had fallen asleep. They were still travelling, and Mistletoe couldn't help but wonder whether the wand of Snape's would, by any chance, speed things up.

"Are we there yet?" she said loudly, voice a little hoarse.

He grunted. She assumed they had almost arrived at their destination.

"How long has it been, five years?" she muttered. "From a wizard, I expected more."

And the next instant, she was flung out of his pocket, enlarged, bounded, and rudely shoved into a chair almost simultaneously. She blinked.

Her eyes swept swiftly across the room she was held in, inspecting every corner for clues. She was placed in a tiny sitting room, heavy with the ominous feeling of a dark padded cell. The walls were completely covered in books, most of them bound in old black or brown leather; a threadbare sofa, an old armchair and a rickety table stood grouped together in a pool of dim light cast y a candle-filled lamp hung from the ceiling. The place had an air of neglect, as though it were not usually inhabited.

Snape sat on the old armchair, back rigid, not allowing himself to relax. After a brief inspection of his features, she realised that he held an expression of annoyance.

She glared at him. If anything, she should be the one unhappy, she should be the one feeling out of place. He had kidnapped her! He had stored her in his pocket for eternity, and now that she was finally out, the least he should feel was admission of guilt.

"Severus Snape," she spat, "what do you want from me?"

Snape scoffed. "Oh, never worry, Potter. I wouldn't want anything of yours."

"What am I doing here?" she shrieked. As she reached out to hit him, she discovered a rather inconvenient truth – her hands were tied up.

She struggled relentlessly. The ropes binding her wrists together were most likely done using Severus Snape's wand, she deduced. "How DARE you!"

In defence, she tried to enter his mind. She knew he almost felt it right away, but probed deeper, slithering under the strong defence he had enacted around him. There was nothing keeping her out, and for a second, just a second, she saw his life flash before him as it had with Mister Malfoy...

She was out faster than she could comprehend. Suddenly, her mind was spinning and whatever sense of triumph she had felt before quickly fled. It seemed like Snape was retaliating.

All too quickly for her to prepare, she was flung not only out of his mind, but also into hers. Like some strange phenomenon, her life was placed before her, spinning crazily as if Dudley had grown bored and was fast-forwarding the tape.

She cried out, helpless, feeling so exposed as Severus Snape witnessed her entire life. And suddenly, Legilimency, or whatever the heck it was, stopped seeming like such a marvellous talent.

_-witchery-_

Severus Snape was witnessing a rather strange childhood, one almost similar to his own and yet so different. It was how his should have turned out, how hers shouldn't have and how Dumbledore was such a ruddy idiot to place a child as important as Potter under the care of such arrogant Muggles.

He stared at Lily Evans' daughter, a girl who seemed more like Petunia Dursley by the minute. He hated the way Lily's smart mouth curled with such distain. He loathed the way her beautiful auburn locks were brushed up in such a posh way that they lost their natural touch. And, more than anything, he despised himself for having stood in the shadows, invisible, alone, shaking and forgotten as Dumbledore gave Lily's child away that fateful night of Halloween, thinking it was all for 'the greater good'.

"Let's play a game, Piers," the girl sneered. So like Lily, and yet Lily would never dare talk that way. "I'll close my eyes and count to twenty. By the time I've finished, you'll be gone. Far, _far_ away. Is that clear?"

A fat, stout boy who reminded Severus vaguely of Wormtail back in his days nodded his head feverishly and took off before the girl had even begun counting. Severus shrunk away in disgust at the disconcerting expression on the child's face and decided to jump forward instead.

This time, their setting morphed into a rather formal gathering taking place under a blanket of stars during the summer heat. An outdoor orchestra played inside a huge, magnificent gazebo, and a crowd of well-dressed Muggles waltzed with their partners semi-casually on the lush grass. Severus darted round, trying to spot that tell-tale auburn...

A sharp, familiar giggle sounded behind him. "Why thank you, Ray," Mistletoe chirped to her elderly dance partner. Severus looked tentatively behind him, surprised to find a child fitting in so well in such an event. She seemed the only child around.

"I do hope you looked into those charts my uncle gave you. They provided _adequate_ assistance, I hope?"

Severus blinked. Never had he imagined such a young child saying those words. Her companion, it seemed, was not at all surprised.

The Muggle, Ray, chuckled. "Yes, yes, they did help. Of course, I _had_ told your uncle I wanted them marked. He must have forgotten. The last graph, the –"

"The one printed on the lilac paper? That was by far the best, wasn't it?" The girl injected innocently.

The Muggle looked rather surprised. "Why – yes. Yes. How did you –?" The man shook his head then continued. "As I was saying, the last graph _was_ by far the best. I must say, you uncle's work has become much more impressive of late."

Severus scoffed lightly, moving forward and away as he did. The unfamiliarity of the situation astounded him. Rapidly, time lapsed.

Among the next few seconds, he found himself standing in an extremely decorated (for many prizes hung on the walls), extremely posh-looking (a very fancy wallpaper and immaculately polished floorboards), extremely _Muggle_ school corridor. He blinked, deciding to surf ahead again, but stopped, almost hesitantly at the last instant when he noticed the girl running in a sneaky, silent manner down the corridor and past him, oblivious to his presence. The Potter in this memory was closest to the present day's for she was just as tall except Severus's crafty eyes picked up the shortage of perhaps an inch or two of hair.

Curious, Snape followed her.

At the sudden halt of his figure, he quickly discerned that the girl must have reached the people she had meant to spy on. At the sight of her calculative frame and darting eyes, Severus realised with slight disappointment that the girl was eavesdropping on the _thoughts_ of her suspects. Judging by the girl's sneaky demeanour, however, he guessed that they were not far off. Briefly, he wondered what interested the Potter brat so much.

He was right. A pair of female Muggle teachers were strolling down an adjacent corridor, discussing a serious topic in hushed voices. Edging forward, Severus managed to make out what they were saying.

"– Potter? That is one child I wish I'd never met! She frightens me at times." The younger teacher looked slightly sheepish as she smiled embarrassingly at her companion.

The other, older muggle nodded curiously. "Perhaps you could tell me more about her demeanour? I am rather interested in getting to know my new music students more."

Her informant shuddered. "There have been – incidents," she said quietly. In the background, Snape noticed Mistletoe freeze slightly. "Of course, nothing has been proven but..." The woman leaned in. "She scares the other children."

"You mean she's a bully?"

The Muggle hesitated, oscillating between informing the new teacher of her student's devious past and simultaneously gaining attention and the other hand, and keeping her fears to herself. As a teacher himself, Severus knew what it meant to hold the confidence of his students. Finally, it seemed her thoughts were decided. "Nothing is set in concrete as it is but some of the staff and I... we have our suspicions."

"Only some?"

The teacher nodded reluctantly. "It would seem that others find her a brilliant child," she muttered bitterly.

"I, personally, find her rather gifted in the affairs of music. She converses with the flute rather well, her posture concerning the violin is remarkably experienced and she holds no qualms against piano either."

"Oh, yes, she writes her mind – and others too – during English. It always seems as if she had simply plucked ideas from each student of the class and arranged them together to form a montage masterpiece. I don't know how she does it – either she's incredibly talented or she is the most amazing cheater I know for I swear, even when I keep my eyes trained on her at all times –"

"Having fun, are we?"

Snape's head snapped up and the familiar voice of Lil – Mistletoe Potter. The solidity of her voice compared to the others in this memory assured him, though he was already assured at the sight of her venomous glare aimed at him, that this was definitely the real Potter.

"Enjoyed sifting through other's heads, did we?"

And, as suddenly as the memory had come, it went. Severus Snape had seen enough of what Mistletoe Potter had not meant him to see to realise one thing: unless someone could stop it, this girl could very likely become the next female counterpart to the Dark Lord.

The two of them were splattered across the dusty floor, both slightly panting. For a while, neither spoke, then Severus said rather smoothly, "I do believe it was rather hypocritical of you, Potter."

Mistletoe's eyes were slits, glaring with all their luminous glow at Snape, the unwelcome, bitter stranger who had stolen her from her rather comfortable life then proceeded to read her mind. "Do tell, pray," she spat.

"Do you not, Potter, on a regular basis, read the mind of any soul within the five-mile vicinity of your own ever since you were, according to your aunt, four? Do you not, Potter, constantly eavesdrop in the private thoughts, feelings and life of others who you may not even know? Do you not use your skill to your advantage in the classroom? Is that not called cheating? Are you not, I ask, cheating your own fate?"

Mistletoe stiffened. She kept her eyes trained on a dusky patch on the couch behind Snape, unsure for once, of what to say.

"Just like your father," Snape continued to taunt. "You are just like him. Would it satisfy you to know that he and his little friends tried to kill me during my school years?"

Mistletoe was caught. On one hand, she had never met either of her parents, and by the likes of it, neither were the best. Dying in a car crash? Drunks? They weren't good role models, obviously. But on the other hand? She had her pride, her family's dignity and the name of Potter to defend.

"Do not even start lecturing me on reading your mind, Potter," Snape continued to snarl.

Perhaps defending one's parents wouldn't be the best move. Mistletoe retreated to solely insulting Severus Snape himself.

"Of course, _Snivellus_," she purred. "I wouldn't dare start lecturing you, would I? I'm not your _master_."

The almost instantaneous paling of Snape's face was incredibly satisfying. After all, no one got the best of Mistletoe Potter. No one.

_-witchery-_

Severus Snape found himself in quite the predicament. He couldn't breathe.

Of course. The brat was his daughter through and through. The stupid, stupid nickname. Why, of all things the girl decided to remember, she would remember that?

_-witchery-_

His whole life, Severus Snape had been forgotten and unread like a miniscule Potions footnote, avoided and shunned to extremes like a curse of bad breath, hated, taunted, laughed and mocked at merely for the state of being there and breathing.

His parents, if he could call them that, forgot him more than once and only remembered his existence long enough to give him a name, a room the size of a dog-house, and food and water occasionally.

Petunia Evans saw through Severus as just another statistic that filled up her neighbourhood. Just another dark figure that made the background seem a little less bare. It was people like Snape who made people like Petunia.

Lily Evans, the only woman in his life who ever truly mattered, always hesitated when Severus smiled at her before returning the greeting. He had never been to her house, never met her mother, never even been inside the Gryffindor common room no matter how many times he had offered her the dungeons.

James Potter and his gang of Marauders always hated him. There wasn't much wrong with the fact. Gryffindors like Potter had always hated Slytherins like Snape and rich, spoilt boys like Potter had always teased and taunted on poor, ragged boys like Snape.

Even in the eyes of his fellow Slytherins, he was invisible, the first wave of triumph at his Sorting long gone. Avery and Mulciber had regarded him with suspicious and doubtful eyes when the three of them first met. He was, after all, a half-blood. Third last of the power pyramid. No one special.

Bellatrix Lestrange never ceased taunting him of his _disgusting inferior blood_. Even after he had received the Dark Mark, he'd always be the last picked for raids, always the one blamed when things turned sour and always, just always the one to rid the bodies.

Albus Dumbledore, the _great_ man who gave everyone a second chance, had refused Snape's request for the post the Dark Lord had always been interested in for almost a decade, on the grounds that he was _far too valuable_. He knew, at all of those Order meetings, that he wasn't and would never be trusted or accepted. It would always be Dumbledore informing him of plans, always Dumbledore who bothered asking for Snape's opinion, but even he only did so out of pity, wanting the rest of them to pity Snape too.

It was almost enough for him to break down, just as he had those years back when he realised it was Lily Evans and her daughter the Dark Lord wanted. Lily Evans.

With Severus Snape's life, nothing was ever fair. And for the record, it had taken him almost a decade to come to an understanding that Lily Evans, nomatter how much her daughter reminded him of her, was indeed truly, dreadfully dead.

As we have now seen, it would be simple to say that Severus Snape has had a rather harsh life. No one cared about him, no one thought of him, no one ever bothered with him.

Even as Death, even as a haunted spirit of what I once was, I could feel the pain, his want for the numb etherized feeling he could never truly achieve with Occlumency. Snape would seek to not only hide what he felt from others, but to hide it from himself too. It would be one thing of Severus's life he would never truly manage to achieve.

It is time, however, to give Severus Snape his chance. His mind is set out to accomplish some good in the world. He doesn't care if Mistletoe Potter is set out on a road directly opposite to his, but it was time the Light saw him as, though he hated seeing it as such, one of them.

The wave of triumph soon diminished when Mistletoe realised that Snape was now not only terrified, he was also angry. Furious in fact. Oh, and he had a wand. She hated it when people pretended they were superior to her. She was special, wasn't she? She was a witch and she just had to be a powerful one too.

Snape was breathing deeply. Any minute now, Mistletoe thought. Any minute he would round his forces at her. She figured he probably wouldn't kill her – she was too valuable. He had gone to the trouble of kidnapping her, of course. His efforts of forcing her to his school would be wasted otherwise.

So when Snape pointed his wand at her, and she in turn glared at him defiantly, bracing herself for inevitable pain, she was rather surprised to find the twirl of his wand do nothing to her physical presence except to release the ropes she had already forgotten were tied around her wrists.

She stared at him incredulously, mouth agape, unsure of what to say. "You...you..."

Snape, instead of seeming smug for rendering her speechless, inclined his head and walked out the door. Back to his old self, she thought. The self where he was so repulsed by her presence he couldn't even look at her.

She felt furious, glowering at his retreating figure. Why wasn't he angry? Why wasn't he showing any emotions? Didn't he have anything to say to her?

"Where are you going?" She yelled at his back. "Don't just leave me here."

He paused, then said without turning round, "come."

She sighed, trudging reluctantly and desperately trying to keep up with his fast, relentless pace. She was bought down a dim hallway, about has cheerful as the rest of the house. Snape stopped abruptly, causing Mistletoe to almost bang into him, then he opened a door she hadn't noticed before, pushing her roughly into it.

"This will be your room until you learn some respect," he said.

"I'm hungry," she muttered, hating the whining tone that was obvious in her voice. Severus must have noticed it too, for he replied bitterly, "You will be given provisions when you learn how to ask for them."

And then he left, slamming the door shut in

a dramatic finish.

_-witchery-_

For a few seconds, Mistletoe blinked at the door, dazed. Slowly, she felt her eyes begin to water, tears starting to build up. She sniffled a little, hating the way things had turned out. It was meant to be a peaceful day spent bugging Uncle Vernon till he sold his Frugal shares, sticking up to Aunt Tuney till she relented and let Mistletoe spend away till she'd bought half the bookshop in the shopping centre down the road, and what was more, the day was supposed to be _normal_.

Her stomach growled. She glowered at it, commanding it to stay silent. Unfortunately for Mistletoe, she was incredibly hungry, missing breakfast then being kidnapped. Reaching for the door handle, she was just about to run after Snape when she remembered what he had said.

"_You will be given provisions when you learn how to ask for them."_

She scowled darkly again. No doubt he would use the opportunity to humiliate her once more if she were to find him and demand for food. He expected her to ask him nicely! Her! What was he, Severus Snape, compared to her, Mistletoe Potter? Nothing. She'd show him.

_-witchery-_

It was almost exactly as the clock tolled for noon when Mrs Figg finally received Dumbledore's letter. His wonderful phoenix with its magnificent golden-red plumage gazed at her with expectation and wisdom. She tentatively unwrapped the string around its foot, pulling out the small scroll of parchment it wound itself around.

Unrolling the tiny parchment, she read the emerald ink:

_Dear Arabella,_

_I apologise profusely for not contacting you sooner. It has only recently come to my attention that the child you were entrusted to watch over, Mistletoe Potter, no longer resides in Number Four Privet Drive along with her family. Her change in residency was not within my notice, but as she lived elsewhere with her family for quite a few years now, it is safe to assume that she is still reasonably protected among the Muggle neighbourhood. _

_My concern, however, lies not with her protection. An acquaintance of mine who has already met the child reported back to me a strange aura concerning the girl. Was there anything wrong, strange or out of place, even for a wizarding child, when you had known her? I would truly appreciate your knowledge._

_Albus Dumbledore_

Mrs Figg scratched her head. Strange? No. There had been nothing wrong with the girl, nothing out of place. From a distance, she would only assume that the Girl Who Lived fitted too well in with her family. Never once had the Dursleys requested her services. Never once had they treated her harshly and never, not once, had she witnessed anything even remotely magical about the girl.

The only things she had found strange was what the other neighbours, more daring to speak to the girl, had her told her – that Mistletoe Potter, though she was a darling, had a rather annoying habit of speaking one's mind. But surely, interrupting others was something only expected of children like young Mistletoe Potter.

No one had ever bothered reprimanding the child. The girl would smile, her dimples would form, embedded into her rosy cheeks, her eyes would light up and sparkle and whatever reproach on the tongue of any person would be forgotten. She was such a pretty girl. It wasn't her fault.

So when Arabella Figg read Albus Dumbledore's letter, she only needed to think for a few, brief seconds before she shook her head and wrote a concise reply back.

All was well, she thought as she watched Dumbledore's phoenix fly off to Hogwarts. All had to be. You-know-who was gone, Mistletoe Potter had saved them all, and she was going to grow up a powerful, beautiful and much-admired witch.

And that, Mrs Figg thought, was that.

_-witchery-_

Now, it so happened that September the first was approaching. And, because the start of September would mean a new school year at Hogwarts, a new wave of eager students and another year approaching Merry Potter's year for Hogwarts, everyone was extremely excited.

One Percival Ignatius Weasley was standing a little further back from the large crowd that was his family, his proud green and silver robes worn proudly and finely starched as he proudly tried on his uniform.

Ambition, Merry Potter (_the_ Merry Potter) had said to him. That was what he had. His house valued ambition. And because he had plenty of it to reap, he belonged in his house almost instantly after the Sorting Hat was placed onto his sweat-laced red hair.

His youngest brother, Ronald, never truly understood him. He was too much like the rest of his family, just like William and Charles, never truly acknowledging the fact that, yes, Slytherin was just as much of a house as Hufflepuff, as Ravenclaw and, though he thought of it reluctantly, as Gryffindor. It was simply a house. Not a pack, not a race, not a social class and not, _not_ a secret underground force of blood purists who practised different methods of torture on Muggles under the watchful eyes of Professor Snape, no matter how much Ronald was inclined to believe it as such.

Thankfully, his twin brother Fred and George were still with hope. As much as they were mischievous, their penchant for going against the family tradition just _had_ to land them into Slytherin. Their house was for the sly and cunning, and Fred and George, as they had proven to him many times with their sometimes (though he hated to admit it) ingenious pranking, certainly held those qualities.

"Oi! Percy!"

Percy turned round to find the twins motioning for him to join them. When he expressed his distaste by wrinkling his nose, Fred and George skipped joyfully up to him like little schoolgirls and each grabbed an arm.

"Say, Perce," Fred (or was it George?) chirped excitedly, like he often did when he asked Percy's opinion on a prank, "what would you do if me and Forge are sorted into Hufflepuff?"

"Forge and I," Percy corrected sternly, though he couldn't help but twitch his lips at his brother's sheepish expression. "Hufflepuff? Honestly? Being in Hufflepuff would mean the Apocalypse. The two of you are about as loyal as a nest of snakes."

"See, Gred?" The other twin piped up, "I told you Hufflepuff would be out of the question."

"And don't even consider Ravenclaw, you two," Percy chastised. "Witty you may be, I consider the two of you as more sly and cunning than anything. And wriggling your way out of punishment? That has _got_ to be self-preservation."

The twins beamed at Percy's judgement, happy that their rebellious older brother approved.

"And what about dear old Gryffindor?" The two of them chimed in together. "Being in that house –"

" – is clearly in -"

"-our blood."

"There's definitely -"

"- the reckless spirit -"

"- in us somewhere."

Percy snorted. "There's nothing reckless about the two of you. You twins are the most planned, calculative brats that ever stomped the Earth, I swear."

Fred and George grinned. "Did you hear that, Forge?" One of them gushed, "Percy just gave us a backhanded compliment."

The other twin grinned. "Who've you been hanging out with, Perce?"

Just as Percy was about to answer, his youngest brother Ronald huffed at them. "With bloody Slytherins, that's who," he muttered darkly.

Percy stiffened. The loyalty imbedded deep in him felt the urge to give Ronald a good telling off, but he knew Ron would never listen to him.

There was once a time when Percy thought of himself as a sort of role model for his younger siblings, Ron and Ginny. Especially Ron. But neither ever seemed to listen. When Ginny wasn't droning on about the Girl Who Lived and begging her brothers to lend her a broom, she was off on their mother doing girl things, talking about girl problems, things Percy knew he was no expert in.

And Ron? Why couldn't Ron just see that being in Slytherin didn't mean being a Death Eater? Sure, most Death Eaters were Slytherins, but not all Slytherins were Death Eaters. How could Ron even go so far as to suggest that he, Percy was a traitor to his family and his blood?

"Oh, come on, Ronnie," one of the twins guffawed.

"You can't honestly believe -"

"- being in Slytherin is any worse -"

"- than being in Hufflepuff."

"And being in Hufflepuff means –"

"- the end of the world."

The twins beamed once more at Percy, waiting for his approval. Flushed, he nodded gratefully at the two.

"'sides," the twins continued, "We're going to try our luck at Slytherin. And you'd better be there to join us."

Ron gulped, nodding a little uncertainly. Even though Ronald held no regard for Percy, it seemed that Fred and George were his idols. Percy doubted Ron would hold back at all on setting the house on Fiendfyre – as long as it meant pleasing Fred and George.

And Ginny? Like Ron, she too had the trademark Gryffindor recklessness. Percy only hoped she would be good enough as a Slytherin.

Towards the approaching September, Percy Ignatius Weasley would only hope that the twins would enter Slytherin (and not Gryffindor) accepted as he had been. There would be no reason for him to hold hopes over Gryffindor. Why should he? In his universe, in his little world, Slytherin would be all there ever was to Percy. His ambition would ultimately be his downfall in the years to come but as an innocent schoolboy who aspired to become someone great, Percy had no other dreams.

And thus, he would remain this way for a long time.

_-witchery-_

Hardly winter and she was shivering. Why was it so cold? She was under a thick, coarse blanket wrapped tightly around her, and yet Mistletoe knew, just knew that if she were to open her eyes, she'd see her breath in the darkness.

He was scared. So frightened. Every night, he'd cry himself to sleep, hoping, just hoping that he'd be discovered, that someone would care enough to get his parents into trouble, take him away, far away to a tropical island where the sun never set, and adopt him.

The same dream every night as his tears enveloped his shivering palms, wishing he had another name, wishing there'd be an old, tall tree with outstretched arms that would send him into the sky when he climbed it, into another realm where pain was unheard of and suffering was non-existent.

There were days when the boy would deliberately place himself into harm's way, just so someone could pluck him back, check to see if he was alright and expose the bruises, the scars and scabs that ran incongruously along his thin ribs and arms. Then, he would brace himself for the comfort, the promise that none of it would ever going to happen again, that Sev deserved better, and the disappointment when any adult would never be seen again.

No doubt, they had heard of the Snapes' strange behaviour and thought better. No one ever gave him the chance, just one tiny little chance to prove that he was alright, that he wasn't crazy, or lying, or attention-seeking. Just one little chance.

_-witchery-_

It was midnight now. Mistletoe knew it was even with eyes closed, for two streets away, Kenneth Smith had woken to the sound of his alarm clock, preparing himself for his shift.

Kenneth had been lucky to find his job, for he had been unemployed for almost two years by the time someone had finally needed him. It hadn't been easy. Kenneth had dropped out of school before he could graduate. All he had to recommend himself with as a primary school graduating certificate and a rusted trophy from the race he'd won at a swimming carnival eight years ago.

But he'd looked his boss in the eye, really looked and said, "Just give me a chance, man." A chance was all he needed and he was grateful his employer had thought enough of him to keep him (and give him a raise) for two years.

Mistletoe shivered again, mind racing to the little boy she'd remembered him as.

Severus Snape was just a bitter man who had never been loved.

The shame she felt at insulting him, at taunting him just as others had (how could she ever stoop to their level?), others she knew were below her, make her gasp for air. She was right when she breathed out again – there indeed was a small cloud being exhaled from her mouth.

It was a universally acknowledged fact that Mistletoe Potter wasn't nice. Ever. So giving Severus Snape the chance he deserved surprised her about as much as the gratitude she felt for his determination to change her. Not that that would ever happen.

It was time the underdog got his say in things.

_-witchery-_

Notes:

I tried doing a number of things in this chapter. First and foremost, I cannot imagine Mistletoe bonding with Snape, at least not until the very end. Second, I have never believed, not for one second, that Percy belonged in Gryffindor. He was extremely ambitious and he resorted to extreme measures just to achieve his ends (i.e. divorcing the family). He should have, in all honesty, been a Slytherin. As for Gryffindor, I honestly don't see anything brave about pulling pranks on enemies instead of facing them full on. As for taking advantage of their talent and creating a booming market out of prank-manufacturing, to me, that merits the Twins some clever thinking – not Gryffindorish at all.

This chapter is also partly dedicated to Arabella Figg, who even as a Squib, was given far less attention and lines than I think plausible. I mean, seriously? They should have given us clues, made her semi-mysterious, if she was gonna turn out to be a Squib.

Hope you liked this chapter, folks. Review with comments or any idea as to whichever path Mistletoe should take: Light, Dark or Grey.

MaskWithATruth


	7. Introducing MadEye and the Past

INTRODUCING THE PAST

They were born only a few minutes past the toll into midnight on a hot summer's day. James was there the entire time, clutching his wife's feverish hands as she laboured painfully for hours on end. The birth of his children was a semi-secret – a well-known fact among Order comrades, a secret among the outside world. Lily Potter, to the rest of the world, was fatally ill. And during times when medical attentions was more needed elsewhere, no one had bothered to check her health.

Their first child, as all our readers know now, was a girl. Her hair was pale, extremely pale at birth. It was only during the next few days that James realised the child had hair the colour of Lily's. "Definitely not a shame," he confided to Sirius, who was waiting outside for him.

Officially, she became Mistletoe Petronica (at Lily's insistence) Potter. But within minutes after her birth, Sirius had jubilantly picked her up and nicknamed her Merry. The child loved it, and so the name stuck. Remus could only groan, a few days later, after his transformation which had coincided with Lily's labour, and joke, "too much Christmas references."

She was brilliant, in everyone's eyes. At birth, she was a silent babe, not like their boy, Harry James, who howled deep into the morning. Her nostrils were slits, which at first scared James a bit, what with their reptilian resemblance, but over the weeks, they shaped into softer holes.

There were other things that unnerved him. First were her eyes.

"Gee, they're the same shade as yours, Lils," he chuckled. "She's got your eyes."

"She has Lily's everything, James," Remus, the more observing of the four, sensibly told James. "She looks just like her, James. I don't think there's a single drop of Marauder in her anywhere."

And James, who briefly felt the rise of bitter disappointment, swallowed it and wisely said, "You're right. Thank Merlin for that."

Question: But was it the fact that the girl, his daughter, had Lily's eyes that frightened him?

Answer: No.

James was scared because his daughter gazed at him with the same directness, the same challenging force, as, and he swore, someone he knew. He just couldn't picture it as of then, but somewhere along the spread of his timeline, he'd chanced upon a rather important individual with a gaze just like his daughter's…

It wasn't right. Babies were supposed to be sleeping all the time. Their eyes were supposed be tiny, darting, watery beads. They weren't supposed to _challenge_ you. In fact, if James could have it, babies were supposed to have their lids firmly shut. Hell, even when he turned around, when he had the lights off, he swore he could feel the penetrating gaze, at times even a faint glow that reminded him of the Avada Kedavra…

But moving on. What James dwells on only reluctantly, we shall not prod.

The second thing James Potter felt nervous about: The fact that his daughter hissed at him.

And it wasn't just his imagination. She hissed at everyone. Minutes after her birth, as James held her high up in the air, inspecting her features, she gurgled. She opened her tiny mouth. James winced, expecting the start of an endless howl.

And out came the sound of a tiny hiss.

What James did next: Simple. He yelped.

Sirius barked out laughter. "It's a baby, James," he cried gleefully, "not an animal. Well actually, I supposed she is, but Prongs, she's your daughter. She's a baby. Don't be afraid. I repeat, don't be afraid."

Perhaps it was because Sirius had been around dodgy people all of his childhood, not that he was calling his daughter dodgy, but maybe that was a contributing factor to why Sirius just felt so…comfortable around her than he did. He did love her, truly he did, but the girl was just so…different.

The other path: Or maybe he was just being paranoid. After all, Lily only found Mistletoe's hissing…oh what was the word she used – insightful.

Insightful. Whatever that meant.

And so she hissed, day and night, never yelling or crying or howling or even just attempting to form words like Harry James. Mistletoe Petronica Potter just never stopped hissing. It was like another language. James couldn't figure out what was wrong with her.

Then after her first birthday, she stopped hissing as much. She started attempting to form words, words he understood. Merry was finally starting to learn his language, the safe, elegant English he, and the rest of the world, spoke and understood.

But the underlying problem: She may have stopped hissing, but she certainly never forgot to hiss. Sometimes in her sleep, when she wasn't busy attempting English, he'd still hear it. The hissing that sometimes told James it meant something. It really did.

A last word from James Potter: He did love her, though. He loved Henry James too, but sometimes, sometimes when he thinks about the fate and future of both of his children, he sighs a little, wondering if he should have done something earlier.

_-witchery-_

Though Mistletoe Potter is our story's protagonist, persona, heroine and main starring role, we must never forget that she is, ultimately, only one half of the twins Lily Potter gave birth to that fateful day in July.

Harry James Potter was also born that day. And because James Potter has had his say, it is now time to play fair and give Lily Potter hers.

Harry James Potter. That was the intended name of their child, but she never meant it for him. She'd only expected one child, and since, truthfully, for Lily never tried to hide the truth, she had meant to only have Merry, she called Harry James, her second born, James, and Merry, her firstborn, Harry. Henry, sometimes, when she thought perhaps Harry James deserved more room in her heart. But she felt she played fair.

While James Potter, the father, noted two things he found unnerving about his daughter, it is only fair to say that Lily Potter, the mother, would note two things she found unnerving about her son.

The first thing: Harry, no, let's call the boy James, shall we, was just so ordinary. He was nothing like Mistletoe, though Lily knew she shouldn't be saying that. But because Lily never did well to hide the truth, and deep down she knew the fact was true, she never bothered hiding it. Everyone knew – Mistletoe would grow up to be a genius, James, perhaps a…very indifferent individual.

Because no matter how much James, her husband, and the rest of them whined about Merry 'hissing', Lily knew they were wrong. Merry wasn't hissing. She was simply talking in half-formed words. Why couldn't her husband just lean forward a little and hear beneath the hissed whispers?

The second thing Lily found peculiar about Harry James: The boy was just so _loud_. He was rude, uncouth, totally the essence of James before seventh year, when his head had shrunk a bit. It was as if he sought for Lily's sole and undivided attention, and even when he knew there was another child, he just wouldn't have Lily turn away from him. It was as if he thought he was doing the right thing, almost protecting his mother from his sister. She couldn't figure just what was wrong with her child, but the instant Mistletoe opened her delicate mouth, Harry James shrieked till the heavens heard until the two were separated, far, _far_ away from each other.

The one thing Lily is certain about: The two of them were polar opposites. There couldn't be a more north or south twin than either child. And no matter how many times she told James, the two just weren't in the same league.

And seeing as James had had the previous last word concerning his thoughts of fatherhood, it is safe to give Lily her last word on motherhood.

What Lily has to say: She did love him, though. Just as she loved Mistletoe too, but there are times, sometimes, when she thinks about the fate and future of both of her children, she sighs a little, wondering if she should have done something earlier, and whether that would have changed anything.

_-witchery-_

One miniscule note of which I, as Death, assures readers will definitely not change anything: Harry James Potter, while the world, this world, has yet to know, is still alive.

_-witchery-_

REINSTATING THE PRESENT

Snape surveyed Mistletoe's every movement for the rest of the week. Occlumency remained briefly touched, and only once, every day. Once again, the Potions Master had her dicing potions ingredients.

Mistletoe sighed. She knew letting him know of her extra-ability, something she was certain even he didn't and couldn't do, would change things. But truthfully, if she had shown him her fluent French, or German, perhaps even _Chinese_, would he have had the same reaction as he did towards her snake-speak?

"So exactly what is going to happen now?" Mistletoe demanded by the time the week, the duration of which she'd set her patience's limits, was up.

"Now, we wait for the Ministry's approval," Snape swiftly replied, sweat unbecomingly lacing his pasty forehead.

"Approval for what?"

"Approval for the authority to officially teach you magic, approval for your guardianship, approval for your entrance towards the Wizarding World as an underage muggle-raised citizen," he continued, sprinkling his bubbling potion with something mouldy without missing a beat. "The Ministry is rather…tight these days."

Mistletoe raised her eyebrows, a little mystified at the pause. "Really?" she questioned dubiously.

"Concentrate on your lacewings," Snape said sharply, back to Potions Master-mode. "I need them thin, as thin as possible for this potion to be effective."

Mistletoe felt the urge to roll her eyes, but decided against it when she weighed her need to relieve her stressed eyes or angering Snape.

"The Wizarding World is different during these times," Snape continued after a while, carefully choosing his words. "More attention is given to those entering magical society from muggle heritage or muggle background. As…modern times are approaching, there is more need to be more secretive, more closely-guarded. It is difficult for any child muggle-born or raised to enter our world before the legal age of which they are allowed."

Mistletoe nodded dutifully, eyes glued to her lacewings. Inwardly, she could sense there was something else. "So basically, the Wizarding World is restricting Muggle-borns learning from magic before they're meant to?"

Snape glanced up sharply. "Not just Muggle-borns. Anyone muggle-raised, living under Muggle household or even just magical folk living close to muggles."

Only a part-truth. Mistletoe didn't need Legilimency to tell. Snape was, once again as she had realised, trying to veer her off the path of separating the weak (Muggles and Muggle-borns) from the not as weak (purebloods).

"And where do half-bloods fit into all of this?"

Snape paused for a while. "The treatment of half-blood children depend under which household name the child legally lives under – a wizard's or a Muggle's."

"I don't quite understand, Snape," Mistletoe intercepted before Snape could continue with his tolerance or neutrality, "If the Wizarding World is truly attempting to promote equality between wizards of different blood, then why on Earth are they fencing those coming from Muggle background off from everyone else?"

Snape was silent.

"I can't help thinking, Snape," Mistletoe continued sweetly, "but it seems like the magical society isn't as equal as you seem to want me to believe."

Snape still didn't say anything.

"You said only a small sect of Purebloods still believe in their own superiority. Did you understate some things, Snape? Is it more than just a few? Has the notion spread beyond the Purebloods and even through to the Ministry of Magic?"

And finally, Snape, who seemed like he just couldn't hold the secrets in any longer, took his wand from the folds of his robes and swiftly vanished his entire potions. He turned to face Mistletoe, and for more than an instant, Mistletoe saw the difficulties he was presented with his true reluctance towards everything. He was, in the end, surprisingly, on her side. And it reassured her for a while.

"Sit down," he said in a soft tone he normally didn't use, "it's time I told you some things."

_-witchery-_

There are two main types of people in the world: those who are leaders and those who are followers.

The leaders led, they ruled and they promised their followers promises of something better to strive for.

The followers, followed, they listened, and they blinding strived for whatever their leaders asked them to believe, never complaining.

His whole life, Severus Snape has never been a leader. He followed when they asked him to follow. He listened when they asked him to listen, and he never complained.

But Severus Snape was not a follower.

Difference number one: Followers lived and spent their lives as nameless faces. History would remember them, perhaps as a Smith, or a John, or even another Weasley. Beyond a name, a birth, perhaps an offspring or two, their place in the universe was very little. But Severus Snape, though he didn't know it then, and maybe he never will, _Severus Snape's_ fate had in plan for him something more. This, dear readers, we shall discuss in another time.

Difference number two: Followers lacked a backbone. That is to say, they kept quiet when told to. Severus, however, and here marks Fate's ingenuity, Severus listened, of course, for he was, above all else, a listener, but he was also a speaker. It was within his nature when he felt the need to speak when he thought right, and spoke.

When Albus Dumbledore excluded the vampire refugees from the list of war veterans approved for Ministry benefits, it was Severus, _Severus_ who brought up the topic among Order members. Not Lupin, who was too cowardly to face even his closest allies, not bloody _Black_, who Dumbledore had, for some blasted reason, always stupidly admire – and look where it got him – not even Arthur Weasley, who'd rather support the Muggles that weren't even aware of any war going on than the few vampire numbers that had the moral compass to stand against the Dark Lord.

No one. It was him. Him. And he didn't even care when, weeks afterwards, the rumour of him being a refugee warlord vampire himself circulated around the Order.

Difference number three: Sometimes, Snape truly questioned the people he had entrusted his very life upon.

Question: So he wasn't a leader, nor follower. Then what did that make him?

Answer: Perhaps we should review the passage ahead.

Rewind: There are two main types of people in the world.

For Severus Snape, he was one of the few left in a moving, changing, shaping society.

He was a survivor. A leftover human.

_-witchery-_

"The Wizarding world hasn't always been like this. There were…intervals in history during which a precarious balance was maintained. But there has never been a doubt that the times never last."

There was a brief pause as Mistletoe lifted her eyes up from her entwined fingers in her lap to face her unofficial guardian, who was absentmindedly twirling his wand

"The Dark Lord is still alive."

It was a fact, stated as one. As soon as the words fell from Mistletoe's lips out plainly onto the table between them, she felt the weight and truth the words held.

Snape scrutinised her with suspicion. "Have you been practising Legilimency lately?"

His tone was resigned. It seemed that he had almost given up with persuading her. She smiled innocently. "Not on _wizards_, no."

And it was true, no matter the degree of scepticism Snape continued to survey her with. After all, what little she knew had been divulged from the conversation she had merely eavesdropped from Mister Malfoy's visit.

But Snape continued. "The Ministry of Magic is corrupt to the point where the unsavoury far outweigh those with true intentions."

For a while, there was silence, though Mistletoe doubted the troubled Potions Master found any peace in it. She patiently waited for him to pick up his thoughts and continue.

"There's…a war going on."

Mistletoe's eyes widened. "A war?" she breathed. _Of course. _How could she have been so stupid? Lucius Malfoy himself had stated, had referred to it so openly more than just once in his conversation. "Between which countries?"

"You are wrong, Mistletoe," Snape said softly, startling her with the use of her first name. "This isn't a war between any two countries. This is a war of forces, a struggle for power. In every age, there has always been a tip of the balance between light and dark. This is power struggle between -"

"Between Albus Dumbledore and the Dark Lord?" She couldn't help it. Any one who knew Mistletoe Potter also knew that the girl loved interrupting. It was a force of habit. She didn't _mean_ to be disrespectful.

Perhaps Snape knew this, for apart from the flicker of annoyance in his eyes, he restrained from commenting. "Correct, mostly. A wizard who has sworn in servitude to the Dark Lord, and branded with his mark, is called a Death Eater."

"And Mister Malfoy has chosen the Dark Lord's side?"

"You must understand, Potter. Malfoy has a reputation, a position in society, and a family to protect. Joining the Dark forces is far easier than leaving."

"I don't blame him," she argued. "Though I must ask…were you ever a Death Eater?"

_-witchery-_

Snape's face paled. Ah, and here was the golden question. He turned away from the girl's expectant face, too much like Lily's when she had asked him a similar question so many years ago. How should he answer? How was he supposed to answer? How to confess yet deny so many things to a girl who would never understand?

"I…was."

Ah. Not denying it. That was a good way to start.

"It was difficult for me then. It was so difficult for everyone. There were only two sides to choose from, black or white, and the instant any student stepped into the halls of Hogwarts, their fate was decided for them. How can you begin to understand?"

Was he being too harsh? No. He couldn't be. Mistletoe Potter could look as unimpressed as she wanted, but she'd never understand the horrors of the past decades. She'd never understand what it felt like to wish, beg whoever was out there, for the end of the world, rather than this.

"I get it," she said flatly, "you were young and you were stupid. I won't hold it against you, Snape. But can you truly tell me you've left, just like that?"

Severus rearranged his face into the usual sneer. "Albus Dumbledore -"

"And that you actually believe Albus Dumbledore would protect you from your master? You're branded for life, aren't you?"

"Albus Dumbledore," he started again, louder than necessary, "is the greatest living wizard on Earth."

Holy Merlin. He was beginning to sound like Hagrid. Or better yet, one of those devout Gryffindor first years who stared at the Headmaster as if the old man was their sun and moon…

"But what about the Dark Lord?"

"He is the _darkest_ wizard of all time, there is a difference," Snape snarled.

And that was enough. He wanted this conversation to end. He needed to get back to his potions making.

"I just can't help thinking, Severus. Are you truly on Albus Dumbledore's side? Do you truly believe following a grandfather bordering one hundred and fifty is the way to victory? What are you truly after, Severus Snape?"

Merlin. He needed a break. He needed his retirement. The brat was ten years old and questioning his own moral thinking…

"So what happens now, Snape?"

Oh, that was it. This was _it_.

Snape glared with the ferocity of a thousand suns. "Now," he gritted with clenched teeth, "now, you get back to your lacewings."

_-witchery-_

And so they waited.

Mistletoe spent most of the first six months living with Severus Snape bugging him with constant questions, requests, needs, teases, the occasional prank, and truly sickening nicknames. Her favourite was 'Sevvie', in which Snape would turn a truly ferocious scarlet, and spend the better part of the next hour avoiding looking at her.

These months were the hardest to survive – the Ministry actually sent a representative who inspected, dissected and analysed every aspect of Mistletoe and Snape's life – from every potion Snape had ever brewed, to the Hogwarts curriculum, to his potions lab, the apothecaries to frequented for ingredients, yes, even the cauldrons' thickness was measured.

Snape's small personal library was also scavenged – of a total of only one hundred and seventy-eight books, twenty-nine were deemed 'restricted reading', all of which were seized, seventy-eight were on the 'rare' list, which basically gave the Ministry a right to scavenge through. The rest of the books were on things like the history of round-bottomed cauldrons, or the theory behind the wolfsbane potion. Which were completely useful – if her life's goal was to become a Potions Master.

Then there was Snape's personal record. It was bloody useful, Snape holding a criminal record of having been arrested under allegations of being a Death Eater. That took the longest to clear, and it didn't help that with Ministry reps running around, sifting through his clothes, obviously trying to find clothing holding any resemblance to a Death Eater's costume. It was also so sad, seeing them open drawer after drawer, only to find every…completely…black.

The fact that Mistletoe was also a natural Legilimens illegally learning the art of Occlumency didn't help either. Lucius Malfoy must have held a mighty sway in the Ministry, for not a single word was mentioned, by anyone, on the subject. Though, naturally, every wizard who arrived at her house seemed to be extremely gifted in Occlumency. A pure coincidence, of course.

Oh, and of course, Auror Alastor Mad-Eye Moody must not be forgotten.

INTRODUCING THE MAD-EYE

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

Any person who met him could immediately tell that was his favourite phrase. Unfortunately for Mistletoe, the day arrived without the slightest warning from any of the inspectors, except for the odd quiver here or there by some of the younger ones.

Severus called her to his lab.

Which was normal, of course. A routine that occurred many times every day. She expected the usual. Chop up the lacewings -carefully Potter, do you understand the word – or perhaps dice up a bezoar – too rough, Potter, they need to be identical cubes – maybe even list all the qualities of whatever potion he was brewing.

But not a figure jumping out of nowhere and yelling loudly in her ear, "CONSTANCE VIGILANCE!"

Initial reaction: She screamed.

Her next move: She immediately whipped out the dagger in her pocket and threw it at the source.

"Arggh!"

A minute later, she calmed down enough to realise the man she had just attacked was an aging Auror with the most hideous face she'd ever seen and a creepy eye that wouldn't stop inspecting her. And then she learnt that the man she had just aimed a dagger at, a dagger which had, though clumsily, managed to hit his head, was probably the most famous Auror ever to live, Alastor Mad-Eye Moody, who had literally managed to fill over half the cells at Azkaban with the Death Eaters he'd caught.

The other Aurors could only look on at awe – and fear. They quickly Flooed themselves to Saint Mungo's, and under the grudging insistence of Mad-Eye, brought Snape and Mistletoe along with them. The Ministry reps were strangely all taking a break at the local coffee shop when all this happened.

Severus Snape was not pleased.

_-witchery-_

_Merlin, is no feat too great for the Girl Who Lived? _Snape thought. Fifteen minutes after the incident, the two of them were being whisked up the floors of Saint Mungo's, Healer Briggs eagerly darting excited glances at Mistletoe while she led them up to Mad-Eye, who lounged with obviously feigned nonchalance on his bed.

When he saw who had entered, he glared with a look that rivalled Snape's own rather mastered glare, though less venomous and a lot more angry. Mistletoe, of course, looked her usual unperturbed, smug self.

"Lived with Muggles, did you?" he finally said, inspecting her critically. "They taught you to throw a knife, did they?"

Nonchalantly, Mistletoe shrugged. "They didn't teach me much."

"I've got to hand it to you, Potter. That throw? The worst I've seen anyone handle a dagger in years," he spat.

"What was a dagger doing in your pocket anyway?" he added suspiciously.

"It was for potions," Mistletoe answered, in a tone that said 'what else?' "And just for the record, you're here in Saint Mungo's because _I _sent you here."

Mad-Eye fumed. And glared. Snape nursed his headache in the background. _Merlin, they're alike in arrogance. Moody would probably say to his prisoners, "you're here in Azkaban because _I _sent you here"._

He just hoped the brat wouldn't worsen the situation by, say, attempting Legilimency on the most paranoid wizard he knew.

No such luck. Seconds later, Alastor roared. "Legilimency? Thought you could get past me?"

Immediately, Healers rushed into the room, trying to placate the old man. He struggled.

"Get away from me!" he shouted, shaking madly. "And you come here, girl! Let me show you the proper way to throw a knife."

It was either with supreme bravery or, as Severus suspected, extreme amounts of cunning guise on Mistletoe's behalf that willed her forward, without a flicker of doubt in her eyes. If anything, she seemed unimpressed, even slightly bored.

By then, the Healers were trembling, most knowing Mad-Eye's reputation for sustaining, and obtaining injuries. A few stared at Severus, waiting for him to interfere. This, however, was the Girl-Who-Lived, who strangely enough, seemed to bear through it. Somehow. So Snape watched, as two very different yet similar people went over the correct methods of knife-throwing.

"Hold it looser!" Alastor instructed. "You'll be _throwing _it, which means _releasing_ it at some point. Curl those nails! There's a reason the handle has finger-moulds – _your place your fingers round them. _And aim – that's a step you don't want to miss. Know how I got this eye? I lost my old one. Know how I lost my old one? Some bastard thought he'd aim for my foot and missed. Got me good, the instant I blinked."

Severus wasn't quite sure how anyone could aim for a foot and possibly miss it for a feet, and neither, it seemed, could Mistletoe. Both didn't bother asking.

"So much for Constant Vigilance, huh?" Mistletoe muttered.

_Merlin, _Snape thought. One of the Healers looked on the verge of fainting. A Daily Prophet journalist eagerly watched, the Saint Mungo's employees far beyond the ability to shoo them away. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood and stared in amazement.

Moments later, the Girl-Who-Lived aimed her potions dagger at the most reputable Auror of all time, managed to add on to the already present injuries, _and _force Mad-Eye into his retirement, the last of which his colleagues would later swear he had promised, only a week ago, that he would serve as an Auror till his death.

The incident ended with Moody edging the girl to throw her dagger – which she gladly did. Strangely enough, though Snape supposed it was typical behaviour on Moody's behalf, the Auror was pleased when the dagger pierced his arm. The amount of blood spilt only did to impress him further, and before long, Moody had promoted 'brat' to 'girl'.

"I need that promised retirement package of mine," Moody grumbled. "No more, I swear. You'll be the death of me, Merry Potter. Upon my honour…"

Almost like magic, the Healers came to their senses and fussed over the Auror, who grumbled childishly. The Daily Prophet managed a snap at Mistletoe, accompanied with Snape, before being forced out of the building, rather satisfied for his no doubt sell-out story.

In the years to come, Mad-Eye Moody would retire, but bring with him a legend. His paranoia had saved him time and again, but it would, in eventual time, mean his downfall, and Mistletoe Potter, his death.

That, of course, is my heads up to you, my wonderful audience. Now, all we shall do, is simply watch.

_-witchery-_

"I am Ginevra Weasley, ten years old, pureblood, shopping in Diagon Alley under the accompaniment of my guardian, Potions Professor of Hogwarts," Mistletoe recited.

"And I am Severus Snape, Potions Professor of Hogwarts, accompanying Ginevra Weasley in her trip to Diagon Alley," Snape continued stiffly.

The ticket collector surveyed the odd pair sceptical. "'Tis al'ight ter relax it a bi', yer kno'," he muttered, amazed at his customer's numbness and incredible forwardness. "Blimey," he exclaimed, "Dementors suck yer souls out, did they?"

Mistletoe seethed inwardly as the scruffily-dressed man finally admitted them onto his bus (the Knight Bus). Sure, so she'd

"I suppose this is the part where you tell me just why I happen to be Ginevra Weasley?" she hissed, as soon as she managed to shift her weight onto a steady-looking pole.

Snape, giving the world every reason to suspect he was ignoring her has he turned his face slightly away and adopted a vague look, whispered back, "Your parents are dead, Potter. Who knows, the next person their killer is after could be you."

Mistletoe snorted. "They've been dead for almost a decade now, Sev," she muttered, "don't you think they were given every chance to kill me when I still lived with the Dursleys?"

Snape remained silent, not that she had expected anything else "So, Sev," Mistletoe relished in the slight cringe Snape gave as she used her favourite nickname for him, "are you going to tell me? Ever?"

Snape sighed loudly. "As if your head isn't inflated enough already," he muttered. A little louder, but still out of the earshot of the ticket-collector, who still stared at them suspiciously, "You, Mistletoe Potter, are famous."

It gave the desired effect. If Snape had expected her to burst into happy tears, she definitely didn't, but that didn't stop her from exclaiming, "I am? What for?"

Were her Legilimency skills so amazing? Had 'befriending' an Auror madman truly made her notorious? She leaned in, anticipating a satisfying surprise.

Snape took a deep breath. "Your father, Mistletoe," he finally said, "was a pirate."

And that, quickly, shut up anything else Mistletoe wanted to say for the rest of their trip.

_-witchery-_

A pirate. A pirate…

Mistletoe just couldn't believe it. She refused to believe it. "B-but I thought you said he was Pureblood," she finally managed, by the time they had entered the Leaky Cauldron.

"And haven't I repeatedly told you that not all Purebloods are as holy as they deem themselves to be?"

Mistletoe spluttered, eyes narrowed at Snape as she missed Diagon Alley appearing magically behind the stone wall. "He was an Auror!" she hissed. never take over the world with her (truly awe-inspiring) acting skills. But did Snape have to force her to repeat off a slip of paper, as if to inform the world she was telling a lie? Who on Earth was Ginevra Weasley anyway?

"So were many," he said in a final tone. "Just look at Moody. Now keep you head down, don't draw attention and -"

"Don't make eye contact, yes, I've got it," she muttered.

Diagon Alley was hardly what she had imagined. After being briefed by Snape of the many shops available with merchandise from magical eye-glasses to colour-changing lollipops, she had expected something with a little more colour. No one had noticed them as they had entered the Leaky Cauldron, just like how no one noticed them now, as they strolled the half-deserted streets of the Alley.

The influence of the Dark Lord must have been astronomical, for the witches and wizards walked with a secretive pace, turning round to glance back whenever they turned corners and made sure not to stay on one side of the road for too long. If anything they were even more terrified than mere, powerless Muggles. She may not have known the people, but Mistletoe felt bitterness and shame floating at the top of her stomach.

No one asked them who they were, where they were going or what they were doing. If anything, Snape's villainous appearance kept the others at bay.

It was only when they had reached Gringotts, the wizard bank run, as Snape had said, on goblins, did he pause

"There'll be no need for you to enter Gringrotts today," Snape grunted. For an instant, he paused. "Wait here," he huffed. His eyes travelled from Mistletoe to their surroundings, looking doubtful of any major attack. "I do suppose the Death Eaters will leave you alone," he said dryly. "Stay here. Some private business I need to settle." Then without another word, he headed off.

Mistletoe scoffed. Stay here, her mind mimicked. Which was exactly what she didn't do the instant Snape had entered the bank.

_-witchery-_

Of all the stores, Flourish and Blotts was, without a doubt, Mistletoe's favourite. Books on the most peculiar of subjects presented themselves in the strangest ways. _The All-Seeing Eye_, for example, had an actual blinking, staring and occasionally even glaring eye right in the middle of the front over. As Mistletoe swallowed, a small boy rushed in front of her and rudely poked the eyeball, hard.

"Aaaarrgh!"

Mistletoe's eyebrows ascended beyond the heavens. Had the _eye_ just _bit_ the boy?

Another whole shelf was devoutly dedicated to – and here Mistletoe sucked in her breath – Quidditch.

Possibly, courtesy of Severus Snape's commentary, the most dangerous modern wizarding game the world had ever foolishly discovered. Also played on broomsticks.

Mistletoe snorted to herself, rolling her eyes as the moving picture of a Quidditch player shot past the page.

"Not much of a Quidditch fan, are you?"

She blinked, turning round to find the smirking face of Draco Malfoy.

"Why hello, Malfoy," she managed, swallowing her surprise and placing on a mask as if she had known of his presence all along.

It didn't lessen his smirk though. He nodded once. "Fancy meeting you here, Potter."

She blinked, astonished by his courtesy. The last time they had met, she especially remembered his rudeness.

"I suppose you're here with your father?" she asked quietly, attempting to banish any misjudgement she had held him against.

Malfoy, however, froze a little. "What's it to you where my father is?" he demanded.

"Well, aren't you curious about who my accompanying guardian happens to be?"

The boy's pointed face contorted into a sneer. "Not the Muggles, I hope."

"Severus Snape."

As expected, Draco's face shot up. Mistletoe smirked back. "Yes, thought you might recognise the name."

Draco sniffed. "Snape happens to be my godfather."

Mistletoe nodded, almost expecting something similar. "Small world. Snape also happens to my permanent guardian."

The boy's eyes widened. "He's your – you get to live with him!"

Mistletoe sighed at Draco's almost accusing tone. "Trust me, Draco, it doesn't come with half as much fun as you seem to believe. I spend my time preparing potions ingredients."

Draco looked hardly convinced. "I'm sure Father would allow you for visits if it does become too unbearable."

"Oh, is this your way of asking me over to play, Draco?" Mistletoe said sweetly.

Draco turned a light pink. "Don't flatter yourself, Potter," he hastily snapped. "I only find it particularly sad that you should scoff at the greatest wizarding sport of all time. Should you ever bother gracing us with your presence, we'll be spending the time in the air."

Mistletoe's smirk dropped.

Now here was an interesting fact. It wasn't often that someone got the best out of Mistletoe Potter. So when Draco Malfoy managed to wipe the smirk off Mistletoe's face for the rest of the day, something was decided.

Draco Malfoy was _definitely_ more than just a spoilt little boy. Perhaps the little prince wasn't so bad after all.

_-witchery-_

"Going somewhere, are we?"

Ah, yes. Who could forget the cynical, sneering tone of Severus Snape as he loomed over the head of countless, countless children? Mistletoe almost cringed.

"You took far too long at the bank," Mistletoe reasoned sweetly. "So I decided to look around myself."

Severus raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "I took all of eight minutes, Potter, seeing as I had urged the goblins to send me down in the fastest cart, knowing it would come to this. Unless your usual impatient self let its eye wonder, I can't think how I could have possibly been at fault."

Mistletoe fought the urge to roll her eyes, knowing that in the end, it was him with the money and the wand. "Shall we start?"

Severus sighed deeply. "Then let us begin."

_-witchery-_

"Well, hello." The soft voice of the invisible wizened man resounded in the shop. Mistletoe lifted her head. There, standing mysteriously at the very top of the ladder and with a few boxes of wands in both hands, appeared the figure of Mr Ollivander.

He smiled wholeheartedly. "Ah, Mistletoe Potter," he greeted with as hearty a smile a wiry old man like him could construct from his many years of wrinkled and dried flesh. "I was expecting you a little later than this, but seeing the way things seem to be heading these days, your presence isn't such a surprise."

Mistletoe stared, a little fascinated and appalled at the man's seemingly positive nature. Perhaps she had been shut away with Snape for far too long to expect anyone with as much a grin on their faces. Nevertheless, the man seemed for too happy greeting a pirate's daughter.

"I apologise for the lack of reception. People seem to be wanting wands more and more these days…"

"_I obviously desire a wand."_

An arrogant, boyish voice echoed in the deepest pits of her memories. She'd always known the voice, ever since she was little. It was rare that she ever aroused it enough for the memories to form audible words. Whoever's memory she had deeply engraved into her mind, the moment the person had bought their wand must have been an unforgettable one, one of the most solid memories the person had.

"I obviously desire a wand," Mistletoe felt herself repeating. Perhaps if the incident was so important, Ollivander would remember it too…

But the old man's eyes hardly flickered. His face was an emotionless mask. Mistletoe longer to peer into his mind, but doing so would cause many complications, what with Snape standing right beside her.

"_Perhaps this wand. Yew and phoenix feather, thirteen and a half inches."_

Maybe it was because both Snape and Ollivander were staring at her fiercely, or maybe because the memories of the unknown boy had recurred in her mind over her entire childhood it almost became part of her, but she blurted out the facts before her mind had processed it. "Yew and phoenix feather," the words rushed out, "thirteen and a half inches."

The previous silence had evolved from a brief pause in a warm atmosphere to an awkward, stunned shock in a nail-biting place. Ollivander stared at her agape and Snape stared at her with a suspicion that told her he knew something was up.

"Yew and phoenix feather, thirteen and a half inches," Ollivander said slowly, fear and bewilderment seeping into his originally pensive tone. "Unspeakable, Miss Potter, truly unspeakable."

Ollivander paused to glare around the shop, as if checking to see if the world was still in place. "I no longer make that combination of wands," he finally said in hushed tones.

Both Snape and Mistletoe stared at Ollivander in surprise. "You must understand that here at Ollivander's, the wands that we make are of the highest standards," Ollivander explained, "nearly every witch and wizard in England buys their wands in my store. It has been that way for many, many years."

Mistletoe thought back to the sign on the door outside reading 'Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC'.

"Perhaps even the darkest wizard of all time had bought his wand from my store," the man continued, gazing at Mistletoe which such ferocity.

"The Dark Lord?" Mistletoe said aloud. As if on cue, the room seemed to darken a little, the atmosphere freeze to a chill, the silence amplified till time seemed to stand still.

Ollivander stiffened. Snape shuffled with an awkward, impatient air. "That's right, Miss Potter," Ollivander finally answered, his voice harsh for such an old man, "yew and phoenix feather, thirteen and a half inches. In my entire lifetime, only ten of those were made, each coming from a different phoenix and a different yew tree. He Who Must Not Be Named was incidentally the third client to have bought such a wand."

"And the other seven?"

Ollivander exhaled. "Burned," he breathed, his voice trembling. It was only then that Mistletoe realized – to a wandmaker, destroying a wand must have been as hard as giving away a child...

"But -"

"Enough, Mistletoe," Snape sharply interrupted from behind, "measure her up please, sir."

Ollivander hastily wiped his face with a sleeve and gave her an unconvincing smile. "Your wand hand, my dear?"

Mistletoe deduced it would be the one she used to write with, so without another word, she extended her left arm, still slightly peeved at Ollivander's earlier rejection to her request. Ollivander blinked, clearly surprised at her choice of hands. "Unspeakable," he murmured again, giving Mistletoe another piercing look.

He measured her from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, should to floor, knee to armpit, round the head, and, as a grand finale, nostril to nostril, with a roll of what seemed to be self-measuring tape.

"Now," Ollivander said with an almost cheerful voice, "may I suggest this wand? Willow. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy. Nice wand for charm work, that. Your mother favoured such a wand. Perhaps-? "

Gingerly reaching for the polished wand, her fingers collided with shades of the past the wand had experienced. She shuddered. It was just so bare. And it had to have been, locked away forever on the shelf of a century-old wandmaker.

It didn't work. It wasn't that the planets had collided and foretold the next apocalypse. Mistletoe even, to some extent, liked the wand, but there was just something off about it, something that she felt shouldn't be there…

Ollivander swallowed, paling by the second. "Well, then. Perhaps not. Er, how about this wand? Designed similar to your father's. Mahogany, eleven inches. With any luck -"

Mistletoe winced. The wand too seemed to quiver. Now here, the planets _did_ collide and did foretell the next apocalypse. It was as if someone was rudely trying to force the north-est north pole to stick with the south-est south pole without any complaint. It just wasn't happening.

Ollivander's eyes darted nervously between Snape, who seemed vaguely amused at the outcome, and Mistletoe, whose exasperation couldn't be more apparent.

"Well," the wizened wandmaker finally said, "I suppose we'll just have to start from the very beginning…"

_-witchery-_

"Willow, nine and a half inches. Pheonix core. Give it a try, my dear."

It was no surprise to Mistletoe when yet another wand failed to connect with her. She eyed beadily, almost certain the wandmaker was purposefully biding his time.

"There is a wand in here," she said slowly, "that will choose me. I think both of us know that very well."

Ollivander nodded, acting distracted as he placed the wand back and selected another at random.

"Perhaps I should make something clear – I have all the time in the world to stay here until we find that destined wand. And I _will_ stay here until we do. So biding your time will just be wasting it for both of us. I suggest we skip the dawdling and find that wand – _now_."

Inwardly, Mistletoe grinned. She had never sounded more Snape-like in her life. Perhaps she had acted too harshly but it was obvious the desired effect had been achieved. Ollivander paused over his endless shelves of wands, turned round to give her an extremely calculated look, then said in a mysterious voice, "I wonder – would it be -?"

With a swish of his wand, two thin boxes emerged from the throng. Stored in sections far away from each other, Mistletoe wondered just which would be hers. Ollivander grimaced as the two floated closer towards one another.

"These two wands are powerful wands, Miss Potter. Direct, complete, utter opposites, but powerful. So powerful that the potential to wreak havoc must be avoided by placing them far apart…"

Mistletoe's curiosity peaked. She stared between the closing gap of the two wands, almost certain she saw a spark. Then suddenly, the two cases stopped progressing to the path of collision and landed on the table heavily, one at each end.

"Not too close of course," Ollivander explained. "Never too close."

His hand jerked awkwardly towards one box. He opened it carefully, then with shaking fingers, handed her the wand.

Mistletoe stared at it for a second, unimpressed by the sheer normalcy the wand presented itself with. There were no fancy carvings on the side, no embellishments to tell it apart from an ordinary stick, not even a piece liberally carved for the owner to etch their name it. She doubted anything extraordinary would come from this wand…

And yet, there was something about it, something about what the wand almost seemed to whisper, that drew her fingers forward, like the sirens' songs drawing in the curious sailors…

"OUCH!"

Mistletoe yelped, surprised at the sudden shock the wand had given her as soon as she had touched the handle. She rubbed her hand, glaring at Ollivander who had held the wand with no apparent difficulty.

"Obviously, the wand doesn't choose you, Potter," Snape commented boredly from behind, not caring to tend her injury.

"Never mind," she said irritably, "there is still another."

Now here was a fragment of potential greatness. Almost as if to answer her words, the room darkened, the air chilled once more, and the box, the other box that held the other wand, stood out like a candle among the grey. An invisible breeze pushed through the air until it reached the wand, and almost effortlessly slid the case open.

But the phenomenon didn't end there. No, the wand, a corpse rising from the dead, lifted itself off the gentle cushions of the case and waded through the air, bringing the glow away with it, towards Mistletoe.

Just when she thought the wand had performed enough to prove to her its power, it started to _hiss_ at her.

"_Mmmasssterr…_" it whispered, "_yoouuu…arrreee…chhosssen…_"

All three of them, Ollivander, Snape and Mistletoe, seemed to have heard, but she doubted either of them understood. Ollivander had heard something. Long years of wand-making must have caused him to become somewhat of an expert. And as for Snape, nothing seemed to escape his beady eyes…

So without another word or thought, Mistletoe reached out and grabbed the wand with a firm left hand.

_-witchery-_

"Unspeakable," Ollivander muttered as he filed the first wand away. "Unspeakable," he mourned as he christened the other with a droopy bow, watching yet another wand being past from maker to user. "Unspeakable," he digressed as he sorted out his client's change.

"Have a nice day, Mister Ollivander," Mistletoe Potter said smugly as she left, her shadow, Snape – dragon heartstring, oak, twelve inches – closely following behind.

"Unspeakable," he answered behind her.

Mistletoe Potter had absolutely no idea what potential her wand had the power to unlock. And, as a simple student of the wandlore, neither did he.

Question: What was special about Mistletoe Potter's wand?

Answer: To reply would be to list the entire making of the wand from the very first step.

Step One: Retrieving the core.

This vital step, this vital, vital step, couldn't link a wand with its master any closer than it did. The core was the raw magic, the untamable force that beckoned the will of every witch and wizard. And Mistletoe Potter's wand encased one of the most peculiar cores Ollivander had ever tampered with.

Basilisk venom.

Step Two: Taming with a medium

Oak, holly, willow, even the odd eucalyptus from Australia, they were all very average casings coming from very average donors. Mistletoe Potter's wand was made of yew. And it just so happened that Tom Riddle, the Dark Lord, You-Know-Who and He Who Must Not Be Named, had yew coming from the same tree, the same branch, and even the same twig that had, at that time, been dissected into two. Ollivander had taken Mistletoe Potter's wand and crafted a spectacular specimens he'd never dreamed of selling. That he had also crafted another using the other twig had purely been by mistake. An accident.

Step Three: No doubt a witch like Potter, armed with such a wand, would take the Wizarding World by storm.

And for a moment, Ollivander smiled. He ached to see just who the girl would shape into in the years to come.

_-witchery-_

Notes:

For those who read this chapter prior to its editting, I added the extra scene with Moody, purely because when I watched the fourth Harry Potter movie the other day, I simply found Moody too fascinating to ignore, and therefore added him in.

The memory Mistletoe remembered is, indeed, Tom Riddle's. This part will be explained later, but was also mentioned in the editted version of INTRODUCING MISTLETOE POTTER.

Happy reading! Review with any comments, or any ideas as to which side Mistletoe should turn to: Light, Dark or Grey.

MaskWithATruth


	8. Introducing the First Years of 1991

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own it.

INTRODUCING THE FIRST YEARS OF 1991: PART ONE

Unfortunately for Mistletoe Potter, some things just couldn't be missed. An example would be meeting the Ron Weasley. Again. This time, in Madam Malkin's Dress Robes for all Occasions. Of course, just what _he _was doing in a dress shop, being fitted with new robes, was a story in itself, reserved for another time.

Nonetheless, there the boy was, red-haired, freckled, poorly dressed, unchanged in every aspect except height. He was scowling.

"Ow!" he snapped, "Watch it, will you?"

Madam Malkin tutted, ignoring the boy with astonishing ease. Sensing Mistletoe's incredulity, she smiled sweetly and sighed. "Boys. Their reactions are hardly different."

Mistletoe nodded, wishing wholeheartedly that Ronald Weasley, the annoying twat who had hated her the moment she won him in a chess match and refused to shake his slime-covered hand, would remain in his ignorant state and not notice her. At all.

But of course, the way of the world meant Ron would take the instant Mistletoe poised her head to face the back of his vivid red hair to swivel his own head round and see her.

Perhaps he didn't recognise her, still caught up in the frenzy of his robe fitting, for he grinned at her wholeheartedly. It had, after all, been years since the first and last time the two of them had met. Mistletoe briefly wondered where Percy Weasley was and what he had become.

"You're going to Hogwarts too, aren't you?"

Inwardly, Mistletoe groaned. She really, really didn't want to have this conversation right now. Perhaps if she ignored him altogether, he'd get the message. Her eyes glazed, staring right through him as he shot her another smile.

"I'm a first year, but my brothers before me went to Hogwarts, and my parents, so I know what to expect."

Was he trying to impress her? She wondered briefly. Or perhaps it was just his subtle way of letting her know he was a pure-blood.

"What about you?"

Silence. Mistletoe stared straight ahead, ignoring the dimming grin on Ron's face and pretending, instead, to be in a far, faraway place.

"Oi, are you gonna answer that?" he continued, a little irritated. "You do know I'm talking to you, right?"

Mistletoe turned round slowly, then knowing she was cornered, said slowly. "I beg your pardon? You were talking to me?"

He glared. "Yeah. Do you see anyone else I could have been talking to?"

She thinks, she plots, she strikes. Mistletoe formulated a plan, then with a big virtual smirk, said sadly, "That's the problem. I _can't_ see anyone else." Truth. She could see _him, _but no one _else. _The subte

At the corner of her eye, Ron's mouth fell open. "Merlin," he breathed, "you're blind!" Well, not so true. But since she hadn't stated the conviction, there was no one to blame if Ron were to find out the truth but himself.

"That's hardly a nice thing to say, you know," Mistletoe said in a very convincing tone of offence.

"Sorry," Ron muttered with a little more sympathy. "It's not every day you meet someone with an illness the healers at Saint Mungos' can't fix."

"Hm."

"It must be magical then. Your eyes are such a scary colour. For a second, I almost thought they glowed. Like Merry Potter's eyes. Did you know? They say they're the same colour as the Killing Curse and that she zapped You-Know-Who just be _looking_ at him."

"Interesting." It all truly was. Just what on Earth was Ron Weasley talking about? She couldn't wait to head back home and question Snape about it all.

"But you're going to Hogwarts, right? Are you Muggle-born?"

"No."

"Oh." He almost sounded disappointed. "Well…which house d'you reckon you'll be in?"

_What? _What on earth was the boy talking about? Not wanting to seem completely ignorant, she gave a vague answer. "Any of them are fine by me."

"Oh. I suppose. We don't know until we get there, anyway."

"Of course.

"Imagine being sorted into Hufflepuff."

"Yes," Mistletoe nodded, thinking of Snape's pending interrogation, "imagine."

"I want to be Sorted into Gryffindor. It was where my parents went."

Hadn't Severus told her Gryffindor was the founder of Hogwarts? So who were these other houses named after? Sensing Ron's shaky tone, she decided to take the chance to scavenge for more information. "So because your parents were in Gryffindor, does that mean you will be?" she asked in a neutral tone.

The boy looked confused. "Well, no."

"Ah. Well, then you're free to be in whichever house you want to be in. You didn't sound too sure about being in Gryffindor anyway."

"But I _am _sure," Ron urged desperately, "I'm _very _sure. Generations of Weasleys have been Sorted into Gryffindor. My entire room is in red and gold! I can't not be in Gryffindor!"

"Why Gryffindor?"

The question threw Ron off for a moment. "Eh…well, because it's the house that values bravery and courage…and chivalry…it's the best house! Albus Dumbledore was a Gryffindor, you know!"

That did it. If the Hogwarts' own _Headmaster _was from Gryffindor and Snape, Professor Snape who, though possessed with extraordinary spite, did not seem to much like Gryffindor either, then it had to have been Albus Dumbledore himself who had commanded him to cover up the existence of those other houses. The question was, why?

"You know what, Ron?" Mistletoe said tartly. "Just because the role models and head figures in your life have been in Gryffindor, doesn't mean you're going to be, either. No matter how much they force one house onto you, guess what? There's still going to be a sorting process and you'll be where _you belong, _not where they wish you were_._"

Before Ron had a chance to reply, Madam Malkin butted in. "Dear, your robes are complete. Would you like me to wrap them?"

"No thanks," she said sweetly, stepping off the fitting stool. She smirked briefly at Ron and said, "see you at Hogwarts, Ron," before making her way to the counter.

As usual, she left him speechless, this time wondering just who the girl was and how she knew his name.

_-witchery-_

The thing about Ron was that he was constantly being forgotten. Or ignored. Or overlooked. When his mum wasn't busy blowing her top off at Fred and George, she was fussing over Ginny or repolishing Charlie's old school badges with that proud glimmer in her eyes Ron had never seen her look at anyone else. He supposed the rest of them were just complete let-downs. Sure, Percy was, well, perfect, but he was also in Slytherin. His mum had felt utterly betrayed when Bill grew his hair long and got his ear pierced. And Fred and George? That went without say.

In the end, it came down to two things: where he was on the Weasley family tree and the colour of his hair.

The thing about being second last was that you never got the full benefit of being the spoilt youngest, nor could you escape the admonishing of your older siblings being handed down like second, third, or fourth hand clothes.

Whenever Fred and George did anything wrong, his mum would yell and yell at them until she was sick of yelling at _them _then turn to _him _and say things like, "You'd better be good when you're at Hogwarts, young man."

So many times, he wanted to say that he would. That he was going to be good. Even better than Percy. But nothing made any difference. His mum would get that teary look in her eyes whenever he'd try to defend himself by saying that he "didn't do anything, honest!" and reply softly with a "but you will, Ron. Mark my words. You boys will be the death of me…"

Then there was the other side of the deal. His mum expected his brother's antics to pass onto him, but so did they. Fred and George would always pop up saying things like, "Ron'll be in Slytherin, won't he brother? Nah, Ickle Ronniekins wants to be in Gwyffindor where his mummy wants him." Then there was Percy, always starting off their conversations with the words, "Now, Ronald, you and I both know you have the potential to be great, as long as you know how to use it…"

He just didn't know what he wanted anymore.

Ron wasn't the bravest, nor the best-looking. He acted rashly on impulses, loved food too much to dine politely, couldn't help the fact that books were more effective at sending him to sleep rather than teaching him and never bothered to waste time forming pranks he'd never have the gust to pull through.

Which was why in every universe that owned a Ronald Bilius Weasley, what he saw in the Mirror of Erised would always be the same.

_I just want to be loved. Loved, worshipped, adored. Someone famous. Someone better than all my brothers combined._

He talked too loudly, sometimes said things he didn't mean, wished people could just read his mind or something and _get _what he meant, so that they could just leave him alone and dreamt of a day when his family wouldn't be so poor.

But when it came down to it, he just wanted to go to Hogwarts and have a good time.

The second problem lied in the colour of his hair. There was no question that Ron, just like his many siblings, had inherited the famous Weasley hair. That, unfortunately, became the problem.

Ron: Why couldn't he have black hair? Or brown? Or even a shocking bright blue? In the end, when the lot of them lined up behind his father, he'd just be another tally on the Weasley Count, just another Weasley boy.

_-witchery-_

"Anything for you, miss?" The shopkeeper asked impatiently, irritated at the fact Mistletoe had spent so long perusing his bookshelves but still hadn't decided to purchase anything.

"When I am ready, I will choose," Mistletoe replied steadily, though her own patience was slowly dwindling. How to find a book Snape could not possibly disapprove of (Dark Arts? Heavens no! Even a historical book on old Wizarding families? Not over his dead body!) Then, inspiration struck.

"Excuse me sir," Mistletoe called back, "would you happen to have any books concerning Hogwarts?"

The shopkeeper sighed loudly. "Well, there _was '_Hogwarts: A History' but I'm afraid we're out of stock. A young witch managed to snatch it perhaps minutes earlier."

"Has she bought it already?"

"Why no. She's still in here, in fact. You'll find her at the Charms section."

She did, indeed, find a girl skimming the Charms section with utter reverence. Her brown her was incredibly bushy, hiding most of her face except for two large front teeth that "Incredible," she muttered, "teacups can sing! Letters bite! Amazing!"

Muggleborn, obviously. Mistletoe prepared herself for an enlightening conversation. She cleared her throat. "Excuse me?" she said in as much of a humble voice as she could muster. "Erm…is that book you're carrying yours?"

The girl's head shot up curiously. At the sight of Mistletoe, she sniffed snobbishly. "Yes, it is."

Mistletoe frowned. "Oh. I'm sorry. It's just that…I really wanted that book too. Would you mind if I took it from you? Please?"

The girl frowned suspiciously. "I _do _mind. I got the book before you, fair and square. You have no right to take it from me," the girl said, overly indignant.

Mistletoe rolled her eyes. "Which is why I'm _asking _you," she gritted. "You're a Muggleborn, aren't you? Imagine being born from a Wizarding family, and still forbidden from knowing anything about magic, or Hogwarts, or even what should have been your birthright. Imagine being robbed of your _everything _that should have been yours, all because of incidents that were not of your control -"

_Now, now, that's pushing it. _Mistletoe stopped herself, witnessing instead the Muggle-born's apologetic expression. "Oh. You're a Squib, aren't you?"

Mistletoe froze. _What is it with people assuming things I'm not today? _

The girl continued. "I suppose you'll never go to Hogwarts anyway. Sorry."

And just before Mistletoe could withstand any more of the girl, the Muggle-born girl's pity, the girl actually handed the book right into Mistletoe's hands. And she didn't look the least bit sorry that it was no longer hers. _Well, well, well. Miracles never cease to exist._

At her incredulous face, the girl shrugged. "I suppose I can always order another copy. And besides, I'll be there by September anyway. It's alright."

Inwardly, Mistletoe almost felt guilty. The girl was obviously a bookworm know-it-all who, like her, hated ignorance. She almost smiled at the prospect of sharing qualities with a girl not only Muggle-born but one who seemed like her complete opposite.

She turned to go, but not before she picked up a copy of 'Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts'. It was one of the more interesting books the Muggle-born had tucked under her arm.

By the time she reached the end of Chapter 7: The Fall of You-Know-Who, needless to say, she wasn't happy.

_-witchery-_

Waiting patiently at the Apothecary, critically analysing his purchase of dried sprigs, was Snape. At Mistletoe Potter's angry aura, which he had felt the instant she entered the store, he realised, finally, that it was time for Mistletoe Potter to learn of her legacy.

"I must confess, it took you far longer than I expected for you to finally work it out," he said calmly, as soon as the door closed behind them.

"Gryffindor, Snape? Truly?" Mistletoe muttered angrily. "Were you ever going to tell me about Hufflepuff or the other houses? And – _my father was a pirate? _A book I picked up today mentioned a witch named Merry Potter. Care to explain why said witch sounded suspiciously like this one, except there was some mention by her of destroying the darkest wizard in modern history, which _everyone, _even _Ron Weasley _knew, except me – and why _Merry?_"

Of his time at Hogwarts spent as a Hogwarts professor, it would be safe to say that Snape hated Gryffindors. Very true indeed, but what no one bothered guessing was the fact that he hated Ravenclaws _even more. _Granted, the girl didn't seem much like one, but couldn't children ever just take in what they were told and stop asking questions?

"Of all people, Snape," she continued, "I thought you'd understand. I detest unknowing. I abhor unawareness. And most of all, I - _loathe_ - ignorance."

Snape sighed. As usual. He thought about the clump of – horror – white hair he'd discovered last night lurking behind his pitch-black hair and decided he had deduced the source of his premature aging.

"Before you continue, Potter," he said with surprising assertiveness, "listen carefully to what I must say."

Mistletoe glared.

"The choice to hide as much of the Wizarding world as possible from you was made on the behalf of Albus Dumbledore, who is, as you know, Headmaster of Hogwarts. He predicted your aversion to less than approved sects of magic, and therefore exerted his power as the head in order to keep you in the dark and _ignorant _for as long as he could."

Mistletoe fumed.

"Just because I routinely practise Legilimency on Muggles? On, come on!"

"Legilimency is considered by most borderline Dark Arts. For a child such as yourself to be so adept in the art without any previous training, it is almost…unspeakable." Mistletoe smirked, but before her smugness was short-lived. "Of course, there is also the fact that you have the personality of a future dark wizard."

"Witch," Mistletoe corrected. "So according to Albus Dumbledore, I'm the next Dark Lord?"

"I wouldn't quite take that as a compliment," Snape said sharply. "Perhaps you still don't realise. As much as I loath to admit it, you are a very important person in the Wizarding community. So too is Dumbledore. You may have defeated the Dark Lord, but Dumbledore also defeated the Dark Lord Grindelwald before our time. He has full control over most of the future of the British community, being the head of the best magic school in Britain. As Chief Mugwump of the Wizengamot, he has power over potentially all of magical Britain's welfare."

"Including mine."

"_Now _you're thinking. Unofficially, Dumbledore is the most powerful wizard in Britain. He has the power to restrict, constrain and _confine _you breathing space to a tenth of what I have allowed you. The Ministry will strangle you within inches of Azkaban. If you do not change your attitude or at least _pretend _you are somewhat normal, do you understand that it will be a case far worse than withheld information?"

It was now that the girl finally understood. A certain look dawned on her face, and though Snape doubted he had succeeded in reforming her, he was certain his warning had gone to heart. Perhaps Dumbledore's future plans for her wouldn't be necessary. The tests, the conflict awaiting ahead, perhaps there wouldn't be any need after all.

"But you let me wander around Diagon Alley, alone!" Mistletoe said quite some time later. "Unless…you _wanted _me to find out?"

Snape smirked.

"Huh. Dumbledore must have had quite the upper hand for you to agree."

…and Snape scowled. Some things never changed.

"Severus?"

Snape turned, caught momentarily in the surprise of his ward uttering his name without contempt or mockery. A year ago, he would have been strongly reminded of Lily Potter, but now all he could conjure to mind was a curious, somewhat innocent eleven-year-old who truly didn't know what she was getting herself into. For years, Mistletoe Potter had been used by her Muggle relatives as almost a seer – she controlled the family wealth, circling the shares she knew would do well, and the shares she knew wouldn't. She had always been in control of her destiny, always so certain she would grow up to – in her words – rule the world.

But the Wizarding world, Severus knew was different. Every bit of logic and science had fled her, and so too had the certainty and the predictability. It wasn't fair, not even fair for a girl well on her way to becoming the next Dark Lord. Well, Lady.

"Yes?"

And Mistletoe looked at him, looking with eyes full of question.

"Just why _Merry_? Of all the baby names my parents liked, why that?"

_-witchery-_

Malfoy Manor was every part the grand and luxurious fortress Mistletoe had imagined the Malfoy family would live in. There were even albino peacocks prancing around the gardens (plural, as there were three – the entrance garden, the herb and vegetable garden and the flowering garden). Framed portraits of prominently dressed wizards decorated the walls of every room, tapestries displayed the Malfoy coat of arms and the Malfoy ancestors' place in magical wars. Malfoy Manor was, pronouncedly, a grand home with not a single sense of warmth or hospitality in its essence.

Draco, who spent at least ten minutes of every hour boasting his Malfoy pride ("Father works in the Ministry, you know…so did _his _father…and his father's father…"), did eventually stay true to his word, sort of. After a quick tour of the mansion that for lasted half an hour, he dragged her eagerly to the Quidditch Pitch and instructed her to watch.

For hours.

"You'd better be watching, Potter," he shouted, puffing his chest out and holding his broom, Mistletoe thought, in a way he thought showed off his skill.

By the third hour, in which Mistletoe's patience had very nearly run dry, a house-elf suddenly appeared, bowing very lowly before her before croaking up at the sky at the top of his lungs, "YOUNG MASTER MALFOY! YOUR GUESTS HAVE ARRIVED!"

Draco finally, finally flew down and got off his broomstick with the exaggerated poise that reminded Mistletoe of his peacocks. He grinned at her, oblivious to her exasperated boredom. "I invited my friends for an afternoon picnic with us, Potter. Come, let me introduce you to them."

Mistletoe nodded stiffly, wondering what kind of friends Draco could possibly make without offending/boring to death/bribing. Probably pureblooded, aristocratic children like him.

Six of them, well-dressed in wizarding robes and looking impeccably groomed, each adopting a look of indifference (although with lack of good looks for some of them, the indifference could also be mistaken for stupidity), greeted her with surprising interest as Draco introduced them.

"Friends, Merry Potter. Potter, these are my friends – Blaise Zabini, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode."

Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson. All familiar names, of course. Definitely pure-blood.

(A/N: These were Death Eater acquaintances of Lucius Malfoy. The others are unmentioned, as Millicent is a half-blood and Zabini and Greengrass come from neutral pure-blood families.)

Mistletoe noted that Draco introduced every friend with an ounce of pride, even Pansy Parkinson, whose personality Mistletoe instantly recognised as subject to the Obsessive Wife Syndrome, and Crabbe and Goyle, who had immediately stalked to his side like bodyguards. Bulstrode's face was largely blank, except for her curious and slightly awestruck eyes. Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini both seemed like classy, well-nurtured people with good looks, people worth noting down for their connections.

"Merry Potter," Daphne Greengrass mused, shaking her hand politely. "Ever the honour."

"Please, call me Mistletoe. The name Merry emerged from the legend of a one-year-old _baby. _The nickname no longer fits."

"Draco, oh Draco, you wouldn't believe what I saw at Diagon Alley the other day. You remember the Longbottoms, right? Well their son, their heir, Neville or something, he's going to Hogwarts too! That whimpering pudge of uselessness! Him! Hogwarts! Well it turns out his family gave him a toad – a toad, can you believe that? – as a reward for not being a squib. Oh, but I haven't reached the best part yet! About the instant the woman at the counter handed the thing over – and I stayed silent the whole time, even though she had the worst hair I've ever seen – the Longbottom boy yelped louder than a roaring hippogriff, and the poor thing got itself wriggling inside his pants!"

Ah yes, Pansy Parkinson. The unremarkable girl said all of the above, eyes stuck to an unimpressed Draco Malfoy, while she languidly shook Mistletoe's hand. Mistletoe stared at her, a little incredulous at the strong resemblance her face held to a pug.

"He had to take his pants off just to get it out!" Pansy continued delightedly.

"Did you get a good look?" an amused and equally unimpressed Blaise Zabini shot back. Parkinson turned an instant deep red. Millicent, Daphne, Blaise, Mistletoe and even Draco all snickered a little.

"Of course not!" Parkinson shrilled desperately, eyes still on Draco, "I would never do anything disrespectful!" _Not without you, Drakie-poo, _Mistletoe felt like adding for her.

Blaise turned to Mistletoe, a smirk donning his lips as the rest of them watched Parkinson cling on to Draco, who basked in the attention. "Don't mind her. I'm the only one with a sense of humour around here."

Millicent snorted. "I don't know what your definition of humour _is_, Blaise, but it must be different to mine, seeing as you are _not funny._"

Blaise scoffed while Daphne and Millicent snickered. "Picnic, my friends?" Malfoy interrupted.

Mistletoe opened her mouth to answer, only to be beaten by Pansy, who said loudly, "Of course, Draco!"

_Oh, yes, Drakie-poo, whatever you want!_

The party proceeded to the Malfoys' perfect front lawn. There in the middle of the well-trimmed grass lay an epitome of perfection. The 'picnic' turned out to be an entire lunch setting brought outside, carefully balanced with chairs, napkins, glistening crockery, and, of course, the food.

Malfoy sauntered over and sat himself at the end of the long dinner table, the classic accessory Mistletoe had always imagined a grand manor or castle would have. He seemed content in dragging Mistletoe over with them, sitting her down beside him and motioning his companions to join them.

The house-elf hovered around her, forcing her to bite back a comment. His hands trembled as he placed her napkin down on her lap with refined grace. He them proceeded to interrogate her.

"Does the Great Merry Potter need anything else? Anything at all? Anything Dobby can get her?" When she shook her head, he purposefully chose to ignore it, disappearing into the air and popping back before she had had a chance to be surprised or relieved, this time appearing with a pillow. "Just a little something for your chair, miss."

Parkinson looked on with an envious look of disbelief across her face, Draco stared at his house-elf, disgusted. "Did you hear him? Can they sound any more pathetic? _I _didn't even get anything. And I'm his master. Where's his sense of loyalty?"

Pansy simpered and listened attentively, nodding with fervid enthusiasm. Millicent scowled while Crabbe and Goyle nodded dumbly. The only three normal people on the table, Mistletoe, Greengrass and Zabini, exchanged a knowing smirk.

"Attention seeker," Blaise coughed.

In agreement, Daphne picked up her fork and waved it imperiously for a few moments, mimicking Malfoy's autocracy. Mistletoe smirked, merely leaning back into her pillow, extremely satisfied with Parkinson and Draco's faces as they watched the house-elf appear once again, this time with _'just a little something for your feet, miss.'_

"Dobby?" Draco sighed loudly. "Don't you have anything for me? Your _actual_ master?"

The house-elf blinked. "Would the Young Master Draco like a foot massage?"

The group stared doubtfully at Dobby's thin, twig-like fingers. "Oh, never mind. This is clearly not the time and place for a massage."

Blaise snickered. "Oh, but it's fine with us, Draco. By all means, go ahead."

Draco's pale face reddened. Daphne smirked, pleased at Draco's discomfort. "Yes, Draco. We insist."

Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass, and Mistletoe Potter. The three of them exchanged a Look. Here, three souls momentarily learnt to coexist peacefully and simply live.

Question: What was it? Perhaps the beginning of a beautiful friendship? The emergence of the deepest betrayal amongst kin? Or simply three children who shared sentiments and channelled sarcasm?

Answer: It was still too early to tell. What was meant to come would come. Fate, after all, always won.

_-witchery-_

Gryffindor had founded Hogwarts, but so too did Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff and, a name she was very familiar to, _Salazar Slytherin_.

Mistletoe wasn't stupid. The name Slytherin was one exalted amongst snakes, yet used by Ron Weasley as an insult. "Bloody Slytherin," he'd muttered at Mistletoe.

Sometimes, the Wizarding World just didn't make any sense. Why, in the union of a school and sanctuary, had the founders decided to split up their students so cruelly and harshly, until with the exception of Hufflepuff, each founder only chose to teach the ones found worthy? Perhaps they had thought nothing of it, but as the years went by, Slytherin wanted only purebloods at Hogwarts, Ravenclaw only wanted those of wit and talent, and Gryffindor those brave at heart.

"Why doesn't anyone just…I dunno, take out all these houses?" Mistletoe muttered, frustrated. "I mean, in the one thousand years they've been around, nothing good has come out of them. People get so…selective in who they befriend and interact with. Why not simply demolish the restrictions altogether?"

"The problem lies in the fact that nobody _wants_ to see any of the houses gone, not even Slytherin. The Wizarding World _likes _exclusiveness, just as it enjoys rejection. There are names of old pureblood families with lines so deeply rooted in a certain house, until to speak of a name is synonymous as to speak of a house."

"The gathering you witnessed at Malfoy Manor was Draco's attempt at banding together a Slytherin force that would seize power over the first years as soon as the student entered Hogwarts. Every single one of the students you met yesterday has deep ties to Slytherin, with many generations of their line having been Sorted into the house."

"Except for me," Mistletoe suddenly realised. "Why weren't any friends from Gryffindor invited?"

It was a question Severus Snape seemed to find extraordinarily amusing. "By Merlin on my deathbed…Nothing personal, Potter, but Gryffindors and Slytherins just happen to hold a thousand year grudge against each other."

"…okay." The Wizarding world, Mistletoe soon realised, was a very strange, strange place.

_-witchery-_

September the first came, inevitably. Nervous first years dusted themselves, overloaded their trunks with sweets and untouched textbooks. Prefects inspected their badges, proudly and yet with a touch of anxiety. Mothers wept for their children, fathers stood awkwardly on the sideline, waiting for the peace that was about to settle.

A multitude of Weasleys tumbled through a solid wall between Platform Nine and Ten. Nearby, a wizened Muggle blinked, then frowned and shook his head. Excitement filled the air. And already, people were beginning to form unofficial alliances, choosing the individuals they would stand by for the next seven years.

Ron Weasley drifted. He was slightly late, arriving on the train, his nose was smudged on one side, and all compartments had been taken. Of course, eventually fate found him at the door of the one compartment with room spared for him.

"Excuse me," he said timidly at the lone figure whose face was drawn to the window. "Can I sit here? Everywhere else is full."

Theodore Nott half-smiled, eyes glued to a point on the compartment door reflected on the glass. In truth, he had prepared to be alone. "Of course. Sit."

Ron took his time, closing the compartment door at snail's pace, then straightening out his clothes and ruffling his hair, shifting his position on the seat until he was certain he had discovered the best possible seating position in the longest time possible.

In another universe, it would be Harry Potter Ron found in the near-empty compartment, but a multitude of variables had rendered this universe different. Harry Potter was not on the train. There sat, instead, a silent, still boy who looked far less approachable, and Ron was reluctant.

"I-I'm Ron," he soon found himself saying, "Ron Weasley."

The boy sitting opposite him smirked, a little venom-lacking perhaps, but nonetheless smirked. "And I'm Nott. Theodore Nott."

Ron's eyes bulged. Nott paled momentarily at his discomfort. He prepared his speech, one he had mentally recited over the years that had led him through the accusals, the lies and the bullying. _Just because I'm a Nott doesn't mean I'm evil, or that I deserve to die. _

"Theodore?" Ron's eyes were still wide, somewhat amazed. "You must have a shorter name I can call you with than _that_."

Theodore blinked, then shrugged. Inside, his heart pounded with hope. "Dunno. People have always called me Theodore, or Nott."

This time, Ron's eyebrows rose. "Erm…I'll call you Nott then."

Nott didn't argue. He merely gave Ron his first good look, then said, "Your nose is smudged, did your know?"

Ron coloured. "Er…right…" He frantically dapped and the dirtied patch, rather blindly until Nott took out a compact mirror and passed it to the boy who blinked, then wordlessly took the mirror.

A brief interlude passed as Theodore refocussed on his window and Ron tried to think of something that would not only begin a conversation lasting the entire duration of the trip but also one that would make the two of them bond forever, thus not leaving either to fend in the mystery that was Hogwarts on their own.

"Erm…I…what house do you think you'll be in?"

"My parents came from Slytherin," Nott simply answered, his eyes glaring at Ron to say otherwise.

Ron nodded. "Fair enough." Yes, Ron had come a long way from the headstrong, slightly foolish boy he had been when Mistletoe Potter had tied him at chess all those years ago.

"And you?"

Ron shrugged. "Mine were both from Gryffindor."

"Oh."

Another silence fell on the two very different boys who really had nothing to say to each other. Nott thought about being in Gryffindor. Ron thought about being in Slytherin. That, and what the blind girl he'd met at Diagon Alley had said to him.

"You do realise just having parents in one house doesn't mean you won't be in another?"

It was the bravest, most sensible and probably the smartest thing Ron Weasley in any universe had ever said. Nott thought the opposite.

It was _cowardly. _Just another excuse not to be in a house he was crafted to be in.

It _didn't make sense. _How _could _children with Gryffindor parents not be Gryffindors, with Slytherin parents not be Slytherins? There was such things as old, traditional families that always got sorted into a certain house, especially amongst Hufflepuffs, because loyalty was an inherited trait. It had to be.

And it was _stupid_ because a boy like Ron Weasley should be the model Gryffindor boy, and Gryffindors were prejudiced, nonsensical and unthinking.

But Nott, strangely enough, was glad Ron was different.

_-witchery-_

By late afternoon, one thing was certain: Merry Potter was not on the train.

Draco Malfoy sighed. "I say we scout for more potential acquaintances."

"By acquaintance," Zabini interrupted with a smirk, "I'm sure you mean slaves, admirers, allies and – dare I say it – Merry Potter?"

Greengrass and Bulstrode snickered. Pansy rolled her eyes. "Don't bother," she said dismissively, "she probably met up with a bunch of devoted Hufflepuffs. Now as I was saying about -"

"Has anyone heard?" Zabini asked boredly. "Supposedly _Theodore Nott _managed a place in Hogwarts. He's on this train, sitting in one of the other compartments, right now."

It was enough to perk Malfoy's interest and infuriate Parkinson. "Do you ever refrain from interrupting, Zabini?" she snarled.

"_Nott?" _Malfoy choked. "He's on the train?"

He stood up immediately, Goyle and Crabbe following. "Yes, Draco, Nott's on the train. I suppose you'll want us to pay him a visit?"

_-witchery-_

By the time Ron had begun his sixth attempt at conversation, Draco Malfoy had flung open his eighth compartment, in the hopes of finding his friend.

"Finally," he huffed before straightening up and returning to his indifferent posture. "So I heard you were on the train."

Nott nodded. "And here I am."

"Care to tell me why you didn't bother replying to my invitation?" Draco demanded.

Nott shrugged, almost wishing he could turn back to view the moving landscape, if not for the fact that he really didn't want to anger Draco. "I didn't feel like it."

In a rare sight of supreme wonder, Draco Malfoy dropped his usual arrogant face and adopted a new one. One that made Ron Weasley think the boy whose family he was brought up to hate actually had a shred of decency in him, for he almost seemed, well, worried. "Merlin, Theo," Draco groaned, "You've got to talk to us. We do care, you know. How's your mother?"

Nott shrugged again. Little changed in his facial expression. "Dead."

Draco huffed again, clearly unsatisfied and to Ron, a little sad. "So _that's _why Father told me you were going to live with your father." There was a pause as Draco waited for Nott to say something. It made Ron feel as if he wasn't the only one who struggled to find conversation with the boy. "I apologise, Nott. I know you loved your mother."

Nott half-smiled, eyes detached from Malfoy and focussed instead on Crabbe and Goyle. "Don't be. You didn't kill her. A blatant disregard for ill health and prolonged subjection to the Dark Arts did."

Still sitting opposite him and unnoticed, Ron Weasley gulped. Perhaps Nott wasn't just a boy keen to be in Slytherin, perhaps he was one of _those _boys…

"Oh, and who are you?"

It took another two seconds for Ron to realise Malfoy was talking to him. He swallowed. "I'm Ron. Ron Weasley."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Oh. A Weasley. Of course."

Ron sneered, hating the way Malfoy had said 'Weasley'. "Oh, and no point guessing who _you _are. Blonde hair, robes that _should_ fit a king if only one wore them, you _must_ be a Malfoy."

Draco Malfoy gaped.

Ron turned to Nott, whose usually expressionless face almost seemed surprised. "I don't know why you're friends with someone like him, but I won't bother ending it. The two of you must share some qualities if you can actually stand each other. I guess I'll be seeing you around."

In all reasoning, Ron should have left the conversation right then and there. He should have exited the compartment and found friendship in Neville Longbottom, perhaps Hermione Granger. But unfortunately, some things stood in his way.

The Obstacle: A smirking Blaise Zabini, a bored Greengrass who had been dragged along, a Draco Malfoy who was not yet finished and decided he had to have the last word, and a Hermione Granger, a girl who entered the compartment moments later, trying to pin down the whereabouts of a toad, as well as its owner. (We'll get to that part later.)

"Ron Weasley, are you?" Zabini drawled. "Pleasure. This is Daphne Greengrass. And I'm Blaise Zabini."

Ron opened his mouth, wanting to say something but finding himself momentarily dumbfound. _Merlin, why are they all so _nice_?_

And Blaise _wouldn't stop smirking_. "You should know better than to get on the wrong side of this one, Draco," he said amusedly. "His brothers are the sneakiest pair of Slytherins Hogwarts has seen. You just might wake up one day with your head stuck down a toilet."

Draco Malfoy – gulped. Then quickly regained his posture in a way only a Malfoy can possibly achieve. "Well, I guess I've changed my mind about you," he drawled. "Do sit down, won't you?"

Ron – gulped. He looked from a grinning Zabini who had yet to move from the door of the compartment, Daphne who had already taken the seat furthest from Malfoy, Nott, who in his silence seemed somewhat nonchalant, and Malfoy, smirking a smirk the epitome of the Devil.

This next split-second decision of which Ron Weasley made would pretty much change the course of his life. He could either leave, surely on bad terms with every individual in the carriage, or he could stay and see what was in for him.

He sat.

_-witchery-_

Surprising as it was, Pansy Parkinson had got it right. Indeed, the reason Mistletoe had not met up with her acquaintances was precisely because a bunch of friends (whom, similar to Malfoy's gang, was also rather tight amongst themselves and somewhat devoutly loyal to the people they had known since birth) had made it their business that Mistletoe, clearly alone and therefore friendless, possibly even Muggle-born to their unknowing eyes, would not officially enter the Wizarding World on her own.

"Oh, you _can't _sit alone!" Susan Bones exclaimed. "Join us!"

"You don't have to be alone ever again," Hannah Abbott added.

Mistletoe stared. Something wasn't quite right with this compartment…Unfortunately, the door behind her had already slammed shut, leaving her with no choice other than to sit down with the first years, each holding an almost scary grin.

"Susan Bones," Susan introduced.

"Hannah Abbott," Hannah chimed in.

"Ernie Macmillan," Ernie added.

There was a pause in the friendship chain, as the three students waited for Mistletoe's reply with frozen smiles.

Mistletoe coughed. "Er, Ginny Weasley."

"A Weasley?" Zacharias Smith said suspiciously. "You're related to the Weasley twins, aren't you?"

"Dunno. The surname 'Weasley' only brings to mind _one _Wizarding family, so unless either of us are muggle-born, which we're not, I highly doubt the possibility that we aren't related."

Actually, that was true. The Weasleys and the Potters _were _sort of related, through the House of Blacks. But then, so was almost every other pureblood family.

Zacharias Smith still wasn't too convinced with her innocence. "Your brothers, they were Slytherins. The worst of the lot."

Mistletoe smirked. "So I hear. Slytherin House would be my preference too."

Susan, Hannah and Ernie all but gasped. "You want to be in _Slytherin_?" Hannah said incredulously.

"That's the worst house there is!" Ernie declared vehemently.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Ernie, but the Sorting Hat in all fairness sorts a person by their most dominant traits, not by any sort of good and evil ratio."

"Well, Hufflepuff's where we're all going," Ernie said indignantly, as if waiting for her to challenge him.

"Exactly what makes Slytherin House so evil?" Mistletoe said curiously.

The four of them scratched their heads and glanced blankly at each other. _Merlin, you can tell they're not the brightest._

"Well," Susan began, "Slytherin was really, _really _selective of who he wanted at Hogwarts."

"He tried to ban Muggle-borns!" Ernie once again protested.

"Um…So? It's not like any of us are Muggle-born."

Once again, the four of the gasped in horror. _It's almost as if I've insulted the very principle their pathetic lives were built upon. Which, in all fairness, was probably what I did. _

"Think about it, friends," Mistletoe continued before anyone could interrupt, "a thousand years ago, times would have been extremely different. Within Muggle communities, they _burnt _people whom they suspected of witchcraft. It was stupid to learn magic when these witches and wizards would just go back to their muggle homes where they were prosecuted for these very things anyway."

Three first years stood, almost on the verge of an epiphany. Zach, however, still needed some convincing. He snorted. "Honestly, Weasley, you'd think he was doing them a favour. Slytherin wanted to _kill _and _hunt down _Muggles. As in, like it was a sport. What a wonderful job of protecting them there."

"Yes, but Muggles are different from Muggle-borns. People back then really _did _believe Muggle-borns were inferior. To a Muggle, it was like social class. Being pureblood was like peerage, but being Muggle-born was like being a commoner: completely and utterly pointless and unworthy of learning magic. And then imagine the Muggles: to wizards back then, they were like animals. Everyone practised blood magic back then, and that involves _human sacrifice_. Most of the times, Muggle."

This time, everyone paled. Being pureblood, all of them knew what Mistletoe was talking about.

"E-even _Hufflepuff_?" Susan squeaked squeamishly.

"I assure you, Hufflepuff was no different."

"But…but…" Zacharias still didn't quite get the gist. "Hufflepuff was supposed to be kind. She wasn't _cruel_!"

Mistletoe shrugged, relishing in the fact that she was crushing young hearts. "She probably didn't see it as such."

It was at this moment in history that the compartment door opened and a notable figure in the playing out of fate walked in. In the form of a nervous, round-faced little boy, no less.

"E-excuse me," he muttered. "But have you seen a toad at all?"

The passengers exchanged a glance before shaking their heads. "I've lost him!" Neville Longbottom wailed, "He keeps getting away from me!"

Now here was a lonely little boy fate had cruelly tormented by stealing away his only companion. He was overweight, had only the slightest more magic than a squib, loathed the fact that his parents had been in St Mungo's for the past ten years, and the only thing that frightened him more about losing his only buddy, Trevor, was being sent back home to face his many relatives who had hoped he would live up to the image of his parents.

Mistletoe didn't know all this, of course. She had merely looked at this pathetic boy, torn for a moment between bullying him, as she would have done in the middle of a Muggle school courtyard, and gaining him as a possible future ally/worshipper/friend(?).

Then she glanced at the people behind her. Well, she supposed the Mighty Albus Dumbledore _might _approve…

It was wonderful. It was fate. Simply put, it was Meant To Be. "It's alright." Mistletoe patted his back. "By the way, may I introduce you to these wonderful people? You simply _cannot _sit alone."

"Er, I'm not really-"

Cue the sugar-sweet, scary smiles.

"Join us."

"You don't have to be alone, ever again."

Mistletoe swallowed back rising nausea. To her, those words seemed creepy. To Neville it was almost his dream come true.

And so began the start of a truly wonderful friendship.

_-witchery-_

Zabini, still grinning, slammed the compartment door shut, and sat next to him. Ron swallowed. Who was worse – Malfoy or Zabini? He really couldn't decide.

"Blaise," Draco said, unimpressed, "what are you doing here? And where's the rest of the gang?"

"You mean your soulmate?" Daphne uttered boredly, distracted by her expression in her handheld mirror. "We decided it'd be better to leave Parkinson behind." She momentarily lifted her eyes off the accessory and arranged her flawless face into a smirk. "You don't mind, do you Draco?"

Malfoy scowled. "And where's Bulstrode?" he demanded.

Daphne rolled her eyes. "As _if _you need _her _around. She's a half-blood, her looks are less than average, and you don't exactly impress her with your pureblood pride. What's the point of having her around?"

Draco sent her a withering look. "Are you stupid? _Merry Potter _is half-blood. You can't expect her to suddenly fit in with the rest of us purebloods at the blink of an eye."

Daphne shrugged. "Did quite fine last week. Besides, she's _Snape's _ward. What did you think she'd be like? As if Professor Snape would seek guardianship over a potential _Gryffindor._"

It was here that Ron Weasley remembered he existed. "H-hey!" he protested. "There's nothing wrong with Gryffindor."

Every eye in the compartment stared at him in disbelief. Ron fidgeted.

"…Right," Blaise said, cutting the awkward silence. "Moving on from that momentary lapse of memory in which we may have forgotten you were born and raised a Weasley…"

Was it possible for Ron to feel any more insignificant than what he did then? Possibly not. Did he regret sitting down instead of leaving? Perhaps a little. Did he want to leave now? With all his magic.

Ron cleared his throat, feeling like he should day something. "Er. I…support the Chudley Cannons…?"

It was Ron Weasley's favourite topic, perhaps to most of his family a rather dull one. Percy, after all, referred to his books, the twins were more interested in setting the other on fire, and Ginny…well. Ginny was a _girl. _

So it was quite a surprise when the person who liked Ron the least became the first to break the stunned silence.

"Chudley?" Draco Malfoy repeated with disbelief. "The Chudley Cannons?"

Ron glared. "Yes. Problem?"

Draco sniffed. Nott coughed. Zabini fought back a smirk, though that in itself was a great feat. "No," Draco said was feigned nonchalance. "It's just that…_I _support the Chudley Cannons too."

Well. It wasn't fate, nor destiny, not even the Creator's sense of humour when Ron and Draco, two very, very different boys, stared at each other for two seconds, then promptly began to discuss everything concerned with Quidditch, especially the Chudley Cannons.

That did it. When Ron began to talk, he just couldn't stop. And this was _Quidditch. _It didn't matter that he was discussing the matter with _Draco Malfoy _of all people. Why hadn't he thought of it earlier? Nott had to have something to say about the greatest sport in the wizarding world.

Now if only things were left as they should have been. But no, Fate loved her cruel jokes.

It was ten minutes later, _Hermione Granger _actually entered a room full of purebloods, each with some hope or aspiration concerning Slytherin, its founder who had cherished persecuting Muggle-borns like herself.

Perhaps she would have survived, had she appealed to Ron's conscience in _some _aspects. But Hermione Granger wasn't just knowledgeable – her purpose in life was to let the whole world know she was a genius, equipped with a mouth that never stopped talking in a patronizing tone, and a face that really wasn't the prettiest. So as it stood, Ron Weasley wasn't too keen in coming to her defence.

Unsurprisingly, all hell broke loose.

_-witchery-_

To those of you disappointed at the abrupt cut, in which the Hogwarts Express hasn't even arrived at Hogwarts yet, sorry. This chapter just grew, and grew…and grew…I promise I'll post the next chapter in the next two weeks. In the meantime, check out my poll and basically tell me what you think about what sort of person Merry Potter should turn out to be.

Notes:

Firstly, I have always been mystified by one thing: in the first Harry Potter novel, Hermione Granger announced having read Hogwarts, A History to most of the first years as they arrived at Hogwarts, yet she had not known how she would be sorted, nor the tale of the Sorting hat.

Second, Theodore Nott is mentioned by JKR as a Slytherin who distanced himself from the majority of his house, thus not being part of Malfoy's group, yet equally pureblood and perhaps smarter than Draco, who actually saw him as an equal.

So how can two very different boys (one who wanted attention, another who thirsted escape) possibly be friends?

Also, I realise Draco Malfoy is supposed to rule tyrannically over Slytherin, but he was so arrogant, petty and prejudiced, I reckon probably most of the Slytherins in the other houses were annoyed with him too. Blaise Zabini was noted in the sixth book as a boy with arrogance rivalling Malfoy's: Where Malfoy _was _arrogant and totally prejudiced in hating Muggle-borns, blood traitors and Muggles, Blaise's arrogance encompassed beyond just those of 'inferior' blood, but even the Death Eaters who were, in essence, men who should have been proud that instead bowed down to a half-blood master.

And last: I have always felt the treatment of Hufflepuffs by the majority of the Wizarding world incredibly unfair. Being Hufflepuff wasn't about being unwanted by the other houses, being soft or stupid. It's about loyalty to Hogwarts.

Hope everyone liked that chapter. Just a reminder, **I've edited the other chapters**, and just for those of you who have read the previous chaps before editing, the biggest changes occur in INTRODUCING PETUNIA DURSLEY, where the extra scene of dropping Mistletoe off with her relatives, and INTRIDUCING MISTLETOE POTTER, where much more is explained about her circumstances, are added.

Happy reading! Review with comments and any ideas as to the path Mistletoe should take: Light, Dark or Grey.

MaskWithATruth


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